On Angel's Wings
by Mummyluvr
Summary: Sam is kidnapped and Dean ticks off the wrong person. Now our dark angel has to figure out how to save his brother while dealing with some heavenly new appendages.
1. Chapter 1

Every story I write has a story behind it. This one is especially interesting.

Basically, I've had this uidea for a looooong time, just running wild in my head. I wanted to know if anyone else ahd done an angel story, so I checked around LJ and You know what I found? Wincest. Lots and lots of Wincest. It appears that everytime Dean sprouts wings, he also develops an unhealthly (and illegal) affection for his little brother. My response to these stories: a resounding EEEWWW!!!!

My solution: **On Angel's Wings**

So, enjoy a story about angels that DOES NOT INVOLVE WINCEST.

Just a fair warning: the first chapter's a bit slow, but things'll pick up next time I update!

**Title:** On Angel's Wings

**Summary: **When Sam is kidnapped by a cult, Dean lashes out at the one person he shouldn't have, and the result is a soring good time (yeah, I know... totaly pun).

**Warnings:** Torture scenes, language, violence. You know... Supernatural stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Come on... if I owned the show would I have to write fanfics? I don't think so!

* * *

**On Angel's Wings**

The hunt had been sidetracked, and that did not make Dean Winchester a happy man. Sure, he'd liked the girl, had felt something special between the two of them, some sort of connection, but it wasn't enough to make him give up a hunt for her funeral. Besides, the whole thing was kind of depressing.

She had told him to have faith, that things would turn out in the end. Dean had almost believed her. Well, she'd been wrong. _Dead_ wrong.

Maybe part of him had wanted to buy into it, to believe that there really _was_ some higher power watching his back, someone who could make the dying girl better. Now, however, what little faith he'd had had been shaken. Layla Rourke was dead. Her body had finally turned on her. She'd outlived her doctor's expectations, sure, but in the long run that did her no good.

Sam had insisted they go to the funeral, pay their final respects. The cult they were chasing down would just have to wait, dangerous as it was. Three people had already gone missing in the small Nebraskan town, but, apparently, that wasn't as important as lowering Layla into the ground.

The mourners bowed their heads to pray, but Dean didn't see the point. It wasn't like anyone was actually listening. There was no good in the world, his father had told him so. No good, just darkness, evil, and despair. Somehow, Dean was all right with that.

Maybe Sam believed that there was some righteous force out there, but it would take some serious convincing to convert his brother.

It wasn't that Dean didn't believe good existed, because he knew for a fact that it did. His mother, for example, had been a good person. So had his father, before the fire. Jess, too, he assumed, had been an angel. Now she was a real one, if you believed in that nonsense.

People were staring, but the elder hunter didn't care, hardly noticed. His mind was on the hunt, not the funeral. The cult, one their father had started tracking years before, was making a move in the town. The victims all had one thing in common: at least one member of their family had died in a terrible nursery fire when the victims were six months old. To the Winchesters, that meant one thing: the demon.

Sam elbowed him roughly in the side and Dean reluctantly bowed his head. He supposed the cult was going after psychics, but how they found the folks was a mystery. In truth, he was starting to get worried. For all he knew, Sammy could be the next victim.

As Dean stood beside Layla Rourke's newly-dug grave, he had no idea how accurate his secret thoughts truly were, or who was listening in on them.

* * *

The group of people, ten in all, their faces covered by dark hoods, stood in a circle in the middle of the mansion. Their father had been good to them. Now it was time to repay that kindness.

The mansion's front door flew open as a man and woman entered the room, holding hands. The man smirked. "You have no idea how truly messed up that guy is," he chuckled, "I almost bailed. He's so confused."

"You got what father wanted?" one of the hooded figures asked coldly, wiping the smirk off the man's face.

"Yes, sir. They're hunting us, just as father said, but they have no idea who we are or where we reside. They just know why we're here, why father wanted us."

The woman beside him, a radiant beauty with flowing red hair and glistening green eyes, nodded. "It should be easy to get the younger alone, and that should cause the elder to spiral into a sort of blind panic. We'll make father proud with this one."

The hooded man nodded. "And if we have any problems?"

The woman smiled. "I'll distract him. Shouldn't be too hard. If that doesn't work, Jimmy here can always put the whammy on him."

Jimmy began to smirk again. "Shouldn't be too hard to bring him down. The truly deranged are always the easiest to hurt. I'll turn his own thoughts against him."

The hooded figures all smiled, anticipating the entrance of a new member into the cult.

* * *

See... told you it was kind of slow :)

Oh well. You know the speil. Read, review, and maybe I'll write more :)


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry about the short first chapter. Something you should know about my fics: chapters tend to vary in length. Anywho, here's chapter 2!

* * *

He wasn't a morning person. Never had been, never would be. Grudgingly, Dean rolled over and glanced at the motel room's other bed, the one that should have been occupied by a scrawny, shaggy-haired man in his twenties.

The fact that Sam wasn't there didn't scare Dean as much as it had when they were younger. Sam was a morning person, and it was already past ten. He'd probably been up for quite some time. With luck, he'd come back with breakfast.

Yawning, Dean sat up and swung his legs off the bed. His feet touched cool motel carpet and he sighed. Across the room, on a table, sat a pile of print-outs about the cult that was terrorizing the town. The group had no name, no known leader, and always kidnapped the same kind of person. They were members of an exclusive club, one that involved a trail by fire at six months of age.

And that, again, was what really worried the expert hunter. Not that they were dealing with a demon-worshipping cult, but the fact that said cult probably wanted his brother. Not that Dean would ever let that happen.

He crossed the room and pulled back the curtains that hung over the yellowing window. The Impala was still parked in front of the room, meaning that Sam had gone in search of food on foot. It wouldn't be the first time he'd decided to avoid pumping the atmosphere full of pollutants and literally take a hike.

What bothered Dean, though, was the fact that his brother's shoes were still on the floor between the beds. Sam only had one pair of sneakers, and there was no way that someone like College Boy would go out into public wearing only his socks. Not to mention the fact that his favorite hoodie was slung over the chair that sat in the corner.

Panic beginning to gnaw its way into his belly, Dean ran at the door, throwing it open and sticking his head into the bright Nebraskan sunshine. No sign of Sam. No sign that he'd ever been there.

Slowly, Dean stepped out of the room, feeling a little foolish in only his boxers, and looked around the parking lot. Nothing was amiss, nothing out of place. Sighing, he turned back to the room, and that was when he saw it. Blood. A _lot_ of blood.

The hunter ran to the door, stooping to look at the sticky red mess pooled by the doorway, dried on the fake wood siding of the motel. It was his brother's blood. He was sure of it. He was going to make those bastards pay.

Dean stumbled back into the room, grabbing a pair of ripped-up jeans from the duffle bag and pulling them on as he silently cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let his guard down with a dangerous cult like that on the loose?

He looked at the ceiling and shouted, his frustration growing with each second his brother was held captive by the demon-worshipping freaks. It was an evil he knew, an evil that had tried to tear his family apart. The demon, the Big Bad, the thing his father had obsessively hunted for so long, and he'd let its followers take his brother.

Dean pulled open the drawer on the bedside table, vaguely remembering Sam stuffing something away in there, some kind of dagger or gun, something that would take down the cult. What he found was a Bible.

Despair and fear finally wormed their way through his body, slipping from his control, giving way to anger. Dean had to lash out at something, and the thick book in the drawer gave him the perfect idea.

"There is no good in this world," he muttered, "not like Sam believes. I know this because a real force of good wouldn't have taken everyone and left me all alone in a crappy motel room." He looked up, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. "There's nothing but pain and evil in life. If there was anything good, I wouldn't be here right now. I'd be safe and warm and I'd have my family."

A soft breeze blew suddenly through the room though the window wasn't open and Dean had closed the door behind him. "Oh," he scoffed, "is that supposed to be a sign? I thought You were one for dishing out plagues. Where are the frogs, the flies, the locusts? Or am I not good enough for the big stuff?"

The pages of the Bible in the drawer began to stir and the book flew open. Something was definitely in the room, Dean could feel it. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, his stomach was clenching into knots. Something big was coming.

"That's it, isn't it?" he yelled, still looking up at the ceiling, "even after everything I've done, I'm still not good enough to even deserve Your pity, right? So You make the wind blow, You ruffle the pages. Well, that ain't enough to convince me that there's something big out there looking out for me. So, unless You do something big, like, say, _real_ proof, I'm just not convinced."

The wind had died down, the pages in the book finished their constant flipping. "I knew it," Dean said, shaking his head, "hey, listen, I'll make it easy for You, OK? I need a sign, so, let's say, if I see an angel, yeah, an actual _person with wings_, in this room in the next three minutes, I'll believe. If not, well, I'll find my brother myself, just the way I always have, _without _divine intervention."

The wind remained quiet, and Dean felt thoroughly satisfied with himself. He began pacing the room, looking for a clean shirt, as his shoulder blades began to itch. He wiggled his shoulders around, suddenly remembering that he'd rolled down a hill in a forest during the last hunt, and had, with his luck, gotten into some poison ivy.

"Just what I need," Dean muttered to himself, still searching for a shirt, as the itch became more persistent, "something _else _Sam can laugh at me about."

Just as he gave up his search for a shirt and decided that his brother's life was more important than any fashion statement, the consistent itch became more. It became pain.

As the hurt began to spread down his back, Dean reached behind him, searching his skin for the source of the irritation. His fingers found two small lumps over his shoulder blades, lumps that seemed to be squirming as the pain intensified to the point that it blinded him.

The hunter fell to his knees on the grimy motel room floor as a searing burn spread quickly down his back. He screamed, for lack of anything better to do, as the sharp sensation overwhelmed him and spots swam before his eyes. He'd been hurt before, but that pain was nothing compared to this. It felt like someone was taking a knife and skinning him alive.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped. Dean sat on the floor for a moment, his head spinning, before he even tried to stand. His back felt heavy, and it threw him off balance for a moment. The hunter stumbled back, running into the bed and feeling an odd pull on his shoulders as he leaned up against the lumpy mattress for support.

Breathing heavily, the man's hazel eyes traveled slowly to the mirror that hung on the wall across from the beds. He could only see half of his reflection, but that was enough to get his heart pounding faster than it already was.

Breath hitching in his chest as panic again welled up within him, Dean crossed the short distance from the bed to the mirror faster than he should have, considering the newly added weight on his back. He gazed into the reflective surface, hardly believing his eyes and realizing suddenly that God was probably laughing up the whole situation.

"Damn," Dean muttered, running tentative fingers over the soft feathers of the wings that now sprouted from his back, "should have been more specific."


	3. Chapter 3

All right. I'm back with another chapter. I guess now would be a good time to find out what happened to Sam, huh?

* * *

It certainly wasn't the first time Sam had been kidnapped, and the room wasn't the worst he'd been held in, but no matter how many times it happened, being pulled by force from a motel room and shoved into some kind of dungeon was _not_ Sammy's idea of a good time.

He was in a small cell, in what he assumed was an unfinished basement. The walls were bare cinderblock, like the walls of a sturdy school, and, just like a kid in a sturdy school, Sam was trapped. His hands were shackled over his head and his arms had fallen asleep hours ago. A rat scurried quickly over his foot.

Somewhere in the cavernous area Sam was being held in, a door opened, the click of the lock turning back echoing sickeningly off the thick walls. A figure, dressed in some sort of black, hooded robe, approached the cell and peered in.

"Good," he announced proudly, "you're awake. We've been waiting."

"Where am I?" Sam asked defiantly, narrowing his eyes at the hooded man.

"In my basement, of course," the man replied, taking a large keyring out of the fold of his cloak and unlocking the cell door, "we've taken you to free you."

"You're with the cult," Sam noted as the man approached.

"Oh, now, where are my manners? I've forgotten to introduce myself." The man pulled his hood down, revealing a bronzed face with strong features and piercing brown eyes, "My name's Jimmy, and you and I have a load in common, Sam."

"I'm nothing like you."

"Not now, maybe, but you will be. See, my father can help you control these abilities, like he did with the rest of us. I was so lost and confused, hearing voices in my head, until these kind people appeared and offered me the assistance I truly needed. I can read whoever or whatever I want to now, no problems. We just want to help you out, here, Sammy."

"It's Sam, and who said I wanted your help?"

Jimmy smiled, but the expression never touched his eyes. "You just don't know what you want. I'm sure we can help you figure it out, though."

"My brother will come looking for me. You'll never get away with this," Sam grinned.

"We'll keep him sidetracked. Now, you need some convincing. We may not be able to get to you like we can with other people, Sam, but we have our ways of getting you to join us." Still smiling, Jimmy left the cell, heading out of the basement to find his 'tools of persuasion.'

* * *

Dean was nervous, but it wasn't because he'd suddenly sprouted a pair of wings. Something close to worry kept gnawing at his stomach, and a little voice in the back of his head, growing ever more persistent, kept whispering for him to go to the park.

"All right," Dean nodded, finally working his way into his favorite leather jacket after five minutes of struggling, "I'll go to the park, but Sammy had better be there."

Even though he was new in town, and had no idea where the park was, the hunter trudged from his motel room and across the parking lot to the sidewalk. He considered taking the car, but finally decided against it. With the luck he was having that morning, he probably wouldn't be able to fit in behind the wheel.

The jacket increased the unfamiliar weight on Dean's back and he struggled to stay upright, attracting sniggers and pointing fingers from locals. At least the lump of the wings wasn't visible, the jacket had taken care of that nicely. Still, though, Dean was fuming as he approached the park and the small voice in his head finally quieted.

Standing in the middle of the lush, green park, Dean stared at his surroundings. There was a swing set to his right, and a slide and jungle gym sat beside it. A baseball diamond rested just beyond the playground, and a picnic area sat beyond that. As far as he could tell, the park was empty.

The hunter glanced upwards at the clear blue sky and rolled his eyes. "I'm here," he sighed, "what now?"

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream cut through the calm summer air as a large shadow passed over the playground. Dean looked up to see what appeared to be a disfigured woman with wings sailing overhead, a small child grasped tightly to her chest.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Dean muttered, "you want me to save the kid from the harpy?" He watched the mythical creature circle in the sky. "Up there?"

A strong breeze whipped through the park, threatening to pull the hunter's jacket from his shoulders. Above him, he harpy screeched and began to glide lazily away from the park.

"Take that as a 'yes,'" Dean groaned, starting to run after the bird-woman and finding it extremely difficult due to the added weight his back, "not sure how I'm supposed to catch her, though. Not like I can fly."

Another strong gust of wind blew over the land, actually knocking Dean backwards onto the grass. He landed painfully on his ass, grunting as something pulled at his shoulders. He gazed upward at the harpy, which seemed to watching him as she circled over the park once again.

The hunter picked himself slowly up off the ground, brushing fresh-cut grass off his rear and frowning at the small cluster of large, stunningly white feathers that littered the ground by his feet. "Duh, Dean," he muttered, throwing off his jacket and flexing the newly acquired muscles needed to move the large wings.

He wasn't sure it was going to work, actually figured that, the way thing had been going that morning, the wings wouldn't be able to support his weight, and he'd fall flat on his face as God again laughed at him. But he'd never know until he tried, and that little boy was in terrible trouble.

Sighing, Dean started to run, gathering speed as he flapped his wings once, twice, three times, slowly, testing them. His feet lifted momentarily off the ground as new muscles worked, completely and surprisingly under his control.

Mustering his courage and trying to forget he was terrified of flying, Dean jumped into the air, flapping his wings hard at the same time. He lifted off the ground, growing closer to the harpy, staggering a bit in the air as he eased himself into the new experience.

The harpy saw him gaining and pulled the little boy, who looked no older than seven, closer to her chest. The boy screamed for help, screamed for his mother, screamed bloody murder. Dean had almost caught them, was close enough to reach out and grab the monster's scaly leg, when the harpy gave up on her noisy meal. Screeching in despair, she dropped the shrieking child.

Without even stopping to think, Dean dove after the boy, folding his wings onto his back. He hurtled toward the ground, wind whistling past his ears as the ground grew closer and closer. Finally, he caught up with the boy, and, reaching out, grabbed him.

As soon as he had boy held tightly to his chest, Dean spread his wings, creating enough resistance to slow their descent. His feet touched the grass and he breathed a sigh of relief, setting the boy down.

"Hey," he sighed, "you all right?"

The little boy sat down, shaking uncontrollably. "It said it was gonna eat me," he whispered, "it said I would never see my mommy again."

Dean nodded, running a slightly unsteady hand through his short hair. "Yeah, well, you're all right now. So, what's your name?"

The boy looked up, his eyes wide as saucers, and gulped. "My mommy told me never to talk to strangers, and never to tell them my name."

Dean smiled warmly, turning on the kid-friendly charm he'd somehow acquired over the years. "It's OK to talk to me, though," he said softly, spreading his new wings out behind him and hoping the kid would believe him, "I'm an angel."

The boy seemed to brighten a bit. "I'm Tommy," he said slowly, "thanks."

"Don't mention it," Dean said, letting out a silent sigh of relief, "now, Tommy, where do you live?"

Tommy grinned, revealing two lost teeth, and happily gave his address. Dean nodded, taking the boy's hand and starting to walk off toward his jacket, planning on walking the boy home.

"Can't we fly?" Tommy begged, pulling on the hunter's hand, "it was fun!"

Dean grinned. "Let me grab my jacket, then we'll see."

Naturally, he caved, stretching his wings once more, this time with Tommy squealing and giggling and clinging tightly to his neck. Dean set him down in his backyard, waving good-bye as he struggled back into his jacket and walked back to the road.

He glanced back at the boy's house as he walked away, and caught a snippet of conversation. Tommy's mother wanted to know where he'd been. She'd been worried sick. Tom informed her that he'd been taken, but his guardian angel had saved him.

Dean turned back to the road, smiling, as the little whispery voice in the back of his head returned, this time with an address.


	4. Chapter 4

Let me just say that those of you who love long chapters are going to be very pleased with this one...

* * *

A lot had happened in the 23 years of Sam's life. He'd endured grief, despair, anger, hopelessness, and pain. Nothing, however, could have possibly prepared him for what Jimmy had in store.

The dark-haired man reentered Sam's cell with what resembled a thick briefcase tucked under one arm. "So, thought about my proposal?" the more experienced psychic asked, setting his bag down on the cement floor.

"I'll never join you freaks," Sam hissed fiercely, "no matter _what_ you do to me."

Jimmy smirked, his eyes glinting maliciously in the dim dungeon lighting, "we'll see about that."

He bent down and clicked back on the case's locks, pulling it open. Inside, Sam could see an assortment of knives, a small box of salt, a hammer and nails, a large iron rod, and a thick leather whip. Basically, it was everything John Winchester had started hunting with.

Jimmy rummaged through the equipment, finally pulling out a long, serrated blade and the box of salt. He smiled as he approached the prisoner, turning the knife over slowly in his hands and relishing the calm, understanding fear in his victim's soft green eyes.

"I'll ask you one more time, precog. Will you join us?"

Sam gulped, catching his reflection in the knife's glinting blade. "My brother's gonna come looking for me," he said softly, "and when he finds you, you'll wish you'd never even heard of this demon."

The evil psychic's grin never faltered. "Have it your way." He slashed out with the knife, cutting a thin, shallow line across Sam's left cheek. The hunter bit down on his tongue, refusing his captor the pleasure of his pain-filled scream.

Jimmy dropped the knife, screwing the cap off his box of salt even before the blade had come to a clattering stop. "You _will_ scream for me, Sammy," he hissed, "and you _will _join us."

He poured a generous amount of salt into his cupped hand and slapped it against Sam's wounded cheek. The compound entered the cut, burning, and stuck to the crimson streaks of blood running down the young man's face. Sam just bit his lip and pushed back his tears, staring at Jimmy through the dense darkness of intense pain.

"No?" Jimmy asked, taking a step back, "well, I have other ways to make you talk, or, yell, or beg for mercy. Really, I'll take anything I can get." He dropped the salt to the floor beside the knife, watching as the white powder cascaded onto the grimy cement. "You know," he muttered, walking back to his 'bag of tricks,' "your brother's never going to find you, so you might as well just give up now."

"You don't know my brother," Sam gasped. His face was on fire, and talking just made the pain spread. He watched his captor, wondering what exactly the psychopath had in store for him.

"You ever see 'Passion of the Christ?'" Jimmy asked, his back to Sam.

"No."

"You should. Great movie. Shame the director's such an ass, but what're you gonna do?"

"Is there a point to this?" Sam inquired, trying to discretely wipe some of the salt off his face and onto his shirt.

"Of course. It was an emotional movie. I cried. I'll admit it. I was fine up until the torture began. Do you know what really started the waterworks for me, Sam?"

"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"They _whipped_ Him, Sammy. The screams, the pained expressions, it was too much for me back then. But that was a long time ago, wasn't it? I've changed, found other people like me, come into my powers, and I realized something."

"What's that?"

"Special effects. Make-up. It was a real tear-jerker until the credits came rolling across the screen. Just an actor, just a prop. None of it was real."

Sam sighed, smearing more salt and blood across his sleeve. "Still missing the point."

Jimmy grinned, half-turning to face Sam. "It was just a movie!" he exclaimed, as if that explained everything, "Sammy, I want to see what that kind of torture actually _does_ to a person. Today's my lucky day. Father finally granted me my one wish." He stood and turned, beaming as Sam's eyes widened. "Father said I was to break you by any means necessary. I intend to do just that."

He stepped forward, kicking at the spilled salt and twisting the thick rope over and over in his thin hands. Jimmy whistled, and two hooded figures stepped from the shadows outside of the cell. "I'll need access to his back," he announced as the other cult members slid fluidly into the room.

They took the shackles from Sam's wrists, and, never loosening their grip on him, turning him to face the wall. They clamped the manacles down hard on his wrists, drawing a thin trickle of blood and ensuring that he wouldn't escape.

Jimmy ordered them to remove Sam's shirt to expose his bare, sensitive skin. His clothing was ripped off and thrown unceremoniously to the floor as a cold finger traced its way down his spine.

"Last chance," a feminine voice whispered softly in his ear.

"Bite me," Sam snapped.

The woman chuckled. "Don't tempt me."

Jimmy waved his hand, signaling the hooded figures to leave. They slid back through the open cell door and left the dungeon, whispering in excitement about the advantages of having a true visionary like Sam on their side.

"Brace yourself," jimmy hissed coolly, and Sam heard the soft snap of the whip falling against the cold ground. He clenched his teeth, balling his fists in anticipation until his hands were full of warm blood drawn by his own nails.

The whip sailed through the air, connecting with Sam's back with a sickening crack and pushing the hunter suddenly against the cinderblock wall. Finally, Sammy cried out.

A thin line of fire seemed to burn down his back, the pain spreading slowly out as thick, red blood cut a track from the wound, creating a crimson flower as it hit the waistband of his jeans. Warm tears flowed from his eyes and ran down his cheeks, bitter salt water filling his wound, causing his face to ache.

"This really does hurt me more than it hurts you, Sam," Jimmy cooed, flicking his wrist backwards so that the limp whip slithered back across the floor to rest at his feet.

"You're wasting your time," Sam gasped, the words barely making their way through the pain and out of his mouth.

"You're wasting your energy," Jimmy pointed out as he again lashed out with the whip, cutting a new line across Sammy's bare back. This time, however, the hunter bit his tongue, effectively silencing a scream as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

Sam spit the red liquid onto the cool cement floor as Jimmy drew the whip back again. The sharp leather met Sam's skin, cutting a clean line down his spine, and he began to wonder just how much more he could take. Torture had never been much of an issue before, not with Dean consistently there to save him.

For the first time since waking up in his cell, Sam was starting to doubt the fact that his brother would come at all. Even though Dean had to have figured out he was gone, would he actually be able to find his little brother before torture turned to murder?

The whip sailed through the air again, snapping hard against Sam's back and drawing more blood. The waistband of the hunter's jeans was completely soaked through.

"Come on, man," Sam whispered through the thick blood pooling in his mouth, "time to save the day." He waited for his brother, spitting out another mouthful of blood, but Dean didn't come.

"Please, God," Sammy attempted as the whip snaked back across the floor, "please, just let him come."

Five more lines were drawn across Sam's back before his prayer was answered and the door leading into the dank basement flew open.

"What are you fools doing?" Jimmy demanded, coiling the whip and turning to the sudden flood of light from above. "What the hell?" he muttered as his eyes caught sight of the shadow that fell across the dungeon's floor.

Sam turned as far as the restraints would allow and gasped loudly. Silhouetted in the blinding light that filtered through the open door was a well-built man… with wings.

_Perfect,_ Sammy thought as the winged figure descended the stairs into the basement, _I'm dead, and this is my escort into the afterlife. That, or I've gone crazy._

As the angel grew closer, though, the hunter noticed something oddly familiar in its swaggering gait, the way it held itself. Finally, as the creature came fully into view outside his cell door, Sam understood, or, at least, _recognized_. "Dean?" he whispered.

The angel, who bore a striking resemblance to Dean Winchester indeed, looked through the bars of the cage. "You messed with the wrong psychic," he hissed, grabbing the cell door and pulling it off its hinges. A look of brief surprise crossed his face, but quickly disappeared as he threw the door aside and stalked into the cell, glowering.

"You can't-" Jimmy began, but was quickly shoved aside by the angel, who threw him effortlessly against the cinderblock wall.

The evil psychic hit the wall hard, and slid down into a slumped sitting position, leaving a thin trail of blood behind him.

Sam stared at the injured man as his savior approached, worry written all over the familiar face. "Man, Sammy," the angel hissed, looking him over and assessing the damage, "what'd they do to you?"

"You ever see 'Passion of the Christ?'" Sam asked.

"No," Dean said, taking the chains that bound his brother to the wall and snapping them in his bare hands before assessing the manacles cutting deep lines into the younger man's wrists, "why?"

"No reason," Sam smiled weakly as the angel fiddled with the restraints, finally succeeding in pulling them off, "just a question."

Dean nodded, gently grabbing Sam's wrist and pulling him past Jimmy's limp form and out of the cell. The brothers ran up a flight of stone steps that led into the light of the mansion proper.

"No way," Sam muttered as his eyes adjusted to the light and finally saw the house in which he'd been tortured, "you've gotta be kidding me."

"They may be evil," Dean noted, still pulling Sam through the large entryway and toward a white door with elaborate glass paneling, "but they've got money. Besides, it's the last place anyone would look for a cult."

They burst through the door and into the strong sunlight of Nebraskan spring. The mansion was one of only a few on its street, which housed many well-groomed lawns and a perfectly smooth sidewalk. Directly across from the house was a grassy hill, and beyond that was the rest of the small town the brothers had been privileged enough to call home for the past few days. Dean started up the hill at an awkward run, but Sam dug in his heels and halted any minor progress his brother might have made.

"Wait a minute," Sam urged, pulling his wrist free of his elder sibling's hand.

"What?" Dean asked, turning around and looking past Sam at the mansion, trying to figure out if any kind of alarm had been raised.

"I have to know," Sam began, shaking his head and trying to hide a smile, "who'd you tick off?"

"What?" Dean asked again, finally meeting his brother's eyes.

The younger man sighed. "Come on, Dean, I'm gone for two hours and you sprout wings? You had to have made _someone_ mad!"

"Can we talk about this later?" Dean asked, grabbing Sammy's wrist again and pulling his up the hill, "you know, somewhere far away from the evil psychic cult?" He let go of Sam's hand and bent down, scooping up the jacket he'd left at the top of the hill.

"It's kind of important," Sam pointed out, grinning broadly as he watched his brother struggle into the favored leather jacket.

"Once we get back to the room," Dean sighed, "I promise. Now come on, it's a long walk."

"Where's the car?"

"At the motel."

"Why's the car at the motel?"

"Man, Sammy," Dean groaned, "what is it with you and wanting to play Twenty Questions today?"

"I just want to know how you got here without the car."

Dean turned. "You do know that curiosity killed the cat, right?"

Sam's shoulder's slumped. "I've just been tortured, Dean, now answer the damn questions. How'd you get here? You didn't walk, did you?"

"No."

"Then how… wait, you're not saying that you… can you _fly?_"

"I was as shocked as you are."

"Well, why are you making me walk? Like I said, I've had a bit of a bad day so far, and-"

"You're not the only one, Sam."

Sammy sighed. "If the walk's as long as you say it is, we might as well get a conversation going. I mean, you're gonna tell me eventually anyway, right? So, what happened, who did it?"

That trademark smirk returned. "Tell me, Sam, have you ever seen 'The Passion of the Christ?'"

* * *

The woman's hood flew back as she ran down the stairs, brilliantly red hair flying out behind her. She'd heard him scream, had known that something was wrong. All it had taken was that single, plaintive cry in her head, and she'd gone running back to the mansion.

Finally, the green-eyed beauty found the cell, where other members of her 'family' had gathered, standing over Jimmy's broken body, just waiting for her to arrive.

"What happened?" she demanded, pushing her way through the crowd.

"It was an angel," one of the younger cult members muttered, his voice airy with shock and awe, "and actual angel. We went looking for it after it left, but all we found were these." He held up a trembling hand, revealing three long, white feathers.

"Idiot," the woman hissed, narrowing her eyes, "there's no such thing. And even if angels _did_ exist, they certainly wouldn't go around throwing people into walls. Now, listen to me, all of you. Go up and check the surveillance tapes. Someone go find Claire, tell her we need her."

"What'll you do?" the little boy with the feathers in his hand asked.

"I'm going to stay and look after Jimmy. Now, run along, do your jobs."

The psychics nodded, trudging out of the dungeon as the woman knelt down beside the crumpled form of her fellow cult member. "Don't worry, Jimmy, they'll get Claire, she'll fix you up right."

Jimmy smiled weakly, moving his head slightly to the side so that the large hole that had resulted from his brief meeting with the wall could be clearly seen. "Not gonna happen, Holly. She's not a strong enough healer. She can't resurrect the dead."

"Just hold on, Jim," Holly pleaded.

The dying man closed his eyes. "That man was no angel, Hols, it was the brother. Something happened to him. _Wings_. He had wings."

"Shh, Jimmy, don't. It was a trick of the light, had to have been."

"Give him hell for me," Jimmy whispered as his head drooped to one side and the shallow movements of his chest ceased.

Standing slowly over Jimmy's body, Holly nodded. Angel or not, Dean Winchester had killed her friend, and she was going to make sure he would burn for it.


	5. Chapter 5

OK. I'm back with another chapter. As always, I also have a generic thank-you to pass out to everyone who reads and reviews. I've said it before and I'll say it again: it keeps me going!

* * *

"Let me explain this again," Sam attempted slowly, his hand resting on the Bible he'd pulled from the bedside table drawer, "when God wants to punish people, He doesn't give them wings and superhuman strength. No, Dean, He makes sure they burn for eternity. Are you understanding this?" 

Dean sighed, pacing back and forth in the room, glancing in the mirror each time he passed it and marveling at the new addition to his reflection. "How else can you explain it, Sam? A curse? A spell? Oh, I know, maybe I'm allergic to our soap!"

"Dean," Sammy moaned, "we've gotta take this seriously. There's something wrong with you."

"Yeah, I know," the elder man agreed, stopping to gaze into the mirror again, "I think I'm actually getting used to this."

Sam sighed, rolling his eyes as he reached a tentative hand out and drew it down one of the soft wings. Dean jumped, turning quickly and batting at his brother. "Dude, hands off the merchandise."

"Just thought I'd make sure they were real."

"Oh, yeah," Dean rolled his eyes, "because I would totally make this up, Sam."

The younger man hung his head, letting his fingers dance gently across the deep gashes in his wrist. His face scrunched in confusion. Only one wrist was marred by the marks the manacles had made, the other one was completely healed, as if the iron shackles had never been there. "Dean," he muttered slowly, "which hand did you grab when you pulled me out of the cell?"

"I think it was your right, why?"

Sam held up both of his hands, allowing his brother to inspect the deep red gashes on the left wrist and the clean skin on the right. "I think you healed me."

Silence fell in the old motel room as the brothers stared at each other. "I healed you?" Dean asked, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Probably," Sam said solemnly, "I mean, just look at my wrists. One's all marked up. The other's clean. It shouldn't be."

"So you just naturally assume that by grabbing your wrist back at that psycho hide-out I made the boo-boo go away?"

"It makes sense, Dean," Sam argued, getting off the bed and walking to his laptop, which sat on a near-by desk, "I mean, if you think about it. Look, there's a whole host of websites about angels out there, and a few of them list supposed abilities. I'll bet you anything that healing's one of them."

"And _I_ bet it'll just say flight, which is obvious, of course," Dean shot back, sitting down on the bed.

"Well," Sam grinned triumphantly, "pay up. Flight, superhuman strength, healing. Do I need to go on?"

"Look, I told you already. This isn't some sort of God-send. It's a curse. I'm no angel."

"That much, I already knew, but how do you explain the way you ripped that cell door off?"

Dean shrugged. "Adrenalin rush."

"Explain my wrist."

"I can't."

Sighing, Sam shut the laptop and went to sit down beside his brother. "You can't, or you won't? Look," he held out his battered, bloody wrist, "try to do it again."

"What?"

"It really hurts, all right. Just try to fix it."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I believe in you."

Dean stood up and practically ran across the room. "You know, Samantha, sometimes I really wonder about you. I know you _think_ you're a guy, but sometimes you act like a really ugly, emo, chick-flicky girl."

"And you're a guy with wings. We've both got our problems. Come on, Dean, you'll never know until you try."

"Exactly what I told my first girlfriend," Dean smirked, "and yours. Boy, was she good in the sack." He sat down across from his brother, on the room's other bed. "What do I do?"

"What you did last time," Sam shrugged.

Dean nodded and took his little brother's hand. He looked up into Sam's eyes. "I think we might just be able to make it to second base tonight, honey," he cooed.

Sammy scowled. "Just get on with it."

"Hey," Dean began, "if this works out, you want me to do your back, too? It looked pretty bad back there."

"Why, Dean," Sam grinned, "that's awfully nice of you."

"Anything to stop the bitching, Sammy, anything to stop the bitching."

Sam grinned, shaking his head as he looked back at his swollen wrist. A small gasp escaped his mouth as his brother's hands began to glow, radiating soft warmth. Dean pulled his hands back suddenly, gazing at them in amazement.

Sam stared at his own hands. "Told you so," he muttered, shocked.

"Lay down and roll over," Dean nodded, not looking up from his hands.

"You know," Sam smiled, doing as he was told, "I bit my tongue pretty hard while they were torturing me, too. It bled."

"Dude," Dean snorted, holding his hands over his brother's back, "no matter what, I'm not sticking my hands in your mouth."


	6. Chapter 6

All right, guys. Time for another long chapter. Get ready for some fun :)

* * *

Holly Monroe sat in the hotel room, gazing out the window. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she was positive that she would find her intended victim that night, in that exact spot. She was going to need to be convincing to get him to trust her, but she was a damn good actress, and incredibly pretty to boot. Dean Winchester wouldn't be able to resist.

A sly smile formed on her face as a large shadow passed over the building. It was time.

* * *

The whole city, surprisingly close to the rural Nebraskan town the cult operated from, was spread out before him. Damn if he didn't fell like Jessica Alba, about to spring with cat-like agility into a world that would never be truly accepting.

Dean shook his head. No matter what, he would never be able to forgive himself for catching that all-day 'Dark Angel' marathon on Sci-fi.

All kidding and breeding cults aside, though, the view _was_ awesome, and provided the amount of space that Sam had refused to let him have. Ever since the pain in his back had vanished, Sammy had been all over his brother, poking and prodding. When Dean had left, the younger had been scouring the internet and their father's journal, searching for an explanation to the odd curse.

Dean knew the explanation now. It was no curse. It was freedom, pure and simple. God's little way of giving him back what he'd lost in the fire.

The feeling of being in control, of having the whole sky all to yourself… it was incredible, indescribable. He liked it, which was kind of weird, considering that the day before, Dean had been terrified of flying.

Things had changed, though. _Dean_ had changed. For the first time in his life, he could leave behind all of the stuffy motel rooms and literally stretch his wings. He could get away from everything and soar. Best of all, he didn't have to worry about Sam, not as long as he had the healing touch.

He closed his eyes and let the wind whip through his hair and ruffle the feathers that, just that morning, had been unseemly, something to be taken care of. It was, apparently, an acquired taste that Sam hadn't yet gotten used to.

"Give it time," Dean muttered to himself, "he'll come around."

He didn't believe himself, though, especially after the way Sam had acted as he'd tried to leave. Dean had learned something from his brother that night: apparently, guys with wings are not welcome in society. _Gee, Sammy, ya think?_

So, Dean had grabbed his trusty jacket and pulled it on as he walked out the door, slipping out behind the motel and sliding it off to stretch his wings again. There was just something to be said about sailing through the sky. It was invigorating.

The hunter smiled, sighing deeply. The wings? Definitely not a curse. The healing hands? Even better. The supernatural strength he'd randomly discovered while saving his brother from an evil psychic cult? Well, he'd just have to experiment with that, wouldn't he?

He was just starting to wonder about what other newly-acquired abilities he hadn't discovered when he heard the scream. Dean's eyes snapped open and he ran to the ledge, looking out over the roof to see a gaggle of people staring up at something.

It didn't take Dean long to find exactly what they were staring at, as another scream issued from the crowd and a body fell from one of the windows below him.

Without even thinking about what he was doing or who was watching, Dean folded his new wings into his back and dove from the rooftop, hurtling straight for the falling woman.

Time seemed to slow down as she reached up her hand toward him, tears streaming down her face. He got his arms under her and spread his wings, creating enough resistance to slow their descent. The save was going perfectly, just like the little kid that morning. The only problem was that the twenty-something suicidal woman in the hunter's arms weighed more than the seven-year-old boy.

It took a couple of flaps of the his wings before Dean had gotten the two of them sailing up toward the rooftop of the building across the street. He landed on his feet and set the trembling girl down. The redhead slumped to her knees, wiping at her eyes and sobbing.

Sighing, the hunter turned around and stepped up to the ledge. He spread his wings, ready to take flight again, when the girl called out to him.

"Wait," she said, "you saved my life. I think I should thank you."

Dean turned his head back, eyeing the girl. The first thing he noticed was that she was incredibly beautiful, with fiery red hair and stunningly clear green eyes. "Just don't do it again," he grinned.

"I'm Holly," she smiled, standing weakly and taking a step toward him.

"Dean," he grinned back.

"Um," the girl muttered, "if you don't mind my asking… why'd you save me?"

Dean shrugged, wings rising and falling slightly as he did so. "Looked like you were in trouble. Now, if you don't mind _m_y asking, what's a pretty thing like you doing jumping out of a hotel room window?"

"It's complicated," Holly muttered, blushing, "I guess you could say that I'm just not like everyone else."

"Join the club," Dean smiled warmly, turning to face her, "anything specific you want to talk about?" _Holy crap, Winchester, since when do you share and care?_

Holly shook her head. "You probably wouldn't understand. And, even if you did, it wouldn't matter. You'd just leave like everyone else. You'd probably leave faster, being what you are."

"Hate to break it to you, hon, but I'm no angel."

"Then what are you, some sort of genetic freak or something?"

"I guess you could say that. So, you gonna tell me what's going on?" _Again with the chick-flicks!_

Holly shook her head again, red tresses whipping around her face. "I shouldn't. I need to go."

"I can give you a lift if you want," Dean offered as she moved toward the door leading back into the building.

"I'm fine, thanks. Trust me, you're better off not knowing me." She pulled the door open and disappeared through it, heading down into the building.

Sighing, Dean turned and spread his wings again, stopping off at the hotel's rooftop to grab his jacket before landing behind the large building. There was something different about that girl, and he wasn't going to stop bugging her until he found out exactly what it was.

* * *

Holly Monroe stalked from the building, glancing nervously at the crowd that still stood across the street. News crews had arrived to document the incredible rescue. Police rushed past her and into the office complex she'd exited, undoubtedly looking for her. They were about to be very disappointed.

Holly had tied her hair back into a ponytail and pulled stolen ball cap over her head. She'd ditched the jacket she'd been wearing, and hoped that no one would recognize her as the suicidal woman that had jumped.

No such luck.

"Hey, Holly," a familiar voice said as someone slid from an alleyway and fell into step with her as she walked down the sidewalk toward her home.

"What are you," she asked the man who had his leather jacket pulled tightly around him, "some kind of Heavenly stalker?"

"Well," Dean smirked, "I'm definitely Heavenly."

Holly shook her head. "Whatever. Listen, if you know what's good for you, you'll turn around and go back to Heaven, or wherever, OK?"

"You know, you keep telling me that you're going to kill me, but you refuse to mention how or why."

The woman spun around, locking eyes with the taller man. "Look, I'm dangerous, all right, and that's all you need to know. Now leave me alone."

"I can't just let you go home alone. It's dangerous out here at night. Wouldn't want something to happen to you."

Holly rolled her eyes, turning and walking away, Dean falling behind her. "It's Nebraska," she reasoned, "not exactly the drive-by capital of the world, you know."

"Why don't you want you want to talk about this?" Dean asked, suddenly feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world, "who knows, maybe I'll understand. Maybe I can help. You don't have to deal with this all alone, Holly. Just let me in."

The redhead sighed, quickening her pace. "Fine, but we can't talk here. Not with all these people around. In about five minutes we'll be out of the city. My house is in a pretty rural area, so it should be safe to talk."

The two strangers walked in silence for a while, as the buildings on wither side of them shrank away. The city was left behind, giving way to old dirt roads and dry prairie grass. The moon was rising up over the fields, bathing everything in an ethereal glow.

Finally, Holly spoke. "It's called pyrokinesis."

"Bless you," Dean muttered.

"No," Holly grinned, "it means I can start fires. It's a very rare psychic ability."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "You're psychic?"

"I guess you could say that. I prefer the term dangerous, myself. This talent I have, it's deadly. My father made sure that I knew that. He blamed me for my mother's death. I don't see how it could have been my fault. I mean, I was just an infant, so how could he expect me to control it. Hell, I _still_ can't control it."

"What happened?" Dean asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

Holly shook her head. "My mom died in my nursery when I was six months old. She burnt up. The fire took everything. My house, my mother, my older sister. Dad and I were the only survivors, and he abandoned me, too. I was only nine when he left. I've kind of been on my own, bouncing around, ever since then. But you probably wouldn't know what that's like, would you? You don't really strike me as the murderous type."

Dean grinned. "You'd be surprised. I, uh, wasn't always this angelic."

"Right. You've got that whole 'genetic freak' thing going for you."

"Yeah. But I kind of know what you're going through. You feel like you're different and no one could ever want you the way you are, so you lie to them. You blame yourself for things out of your control, and you put on a brave face. You think it's easier to fight alone because it means no one else has to get hurt. I hate to break it to you, Holly, but that's a load of crap. Sooner or later, you have to let someone in."

"Like you?" Holly asked, turning her shining green eyes toward him and smiling.

"Yeah," he said, "I guess I'll do."

A housing development loomed up ahead of them, nice middle-class places with 'safe' and 'normal' written all over them. Holly stopped walking and turned to Dean. "I think I can take it from here. Thanks."

"I save your life and all I get is 'thanks?'"

"What would you prefer?"

Dean grinned, cocking an eyebrow.

"You're disgusting," Holly laughed, "but a good person, or angel, or whatever. Thanks for listening."

"Any time," Dean nodded, turning to walk away. The motel wasn't too far from Holly's neighborhood, and he supposed it wouldn't hurt to hoof it. Sam was probably worried sick, sitting up and fearing that his brother had been captured by some secret government agency or something stupid like that.

Dean sighed and shook his head as a green car roared past him, stopping up ahead and turning around. Bright headlights flooded his vision and Dean had to squint to see as the car barreled toward him. They weren't on a collision course, so the hunter didn't think anything of it. He probably should have.

As the car passed, a shotgun was pointed out of the window at the lone traveler. The trigger was pulled and a shot rang out in the clear night air. The bullet hit home, knocking Dean to the ground with a neat little hole in his head.

The driver of the car turned to look back at his hooded passengers as he slowed down. There was no way the precog's brother had survived.

* * *

Holly stood on the street corner, hands shoved in her pockets, waiting for the green car. It pulled slowly to stop behind her and the driver's side window was rolled down. She walked back to the car, smiling when she saw the look of triumph on the driver's face.

"We got him, Hols. That dark angel won't stand in our way anymore."

"Perfect," Holly grinned, "we'll get Sam tomorrow. He won't resist us now, I'm sure of it."

She slid into the backseat of the car, staring out the window and smiling as they passed Dean Winchester's bloody body, sprawled out on the side of the road.

* * *

dramatic music plays Yay! A cliffie of sorts... evil laughter 


	7. Chapter 7

Haha! I'm back. Are you ready to find out what happens to everyone's favorite hunter? I thought so :)

* * *

Dean woke up with a start, coughing and gasping as he came to in the middle of nowhere. He sat up and looked around. He was sitting beside a dirt road, it was dark, and he had a splitting headache.

Slowly, the hunter staggered to his feet, glancing back at the small neighborhood. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something had happened, obviously. People don't just fall down in the middle of a cornfield for no apparent reason.

He headed back in the direction of the motel, figuring that he could sort things out as soon as his head stopped protesting at the thought of even thinking. Police sirens whirred in the distance and lights flashed farther up along the road as the cars sped toward him, kicking up dust.

Dean adjusted his jacket, making sure his wings were well-hidden. Something wet and sticky covered the front of his jacket. Looking down, the hunter noticed that it was blood- a lot of blood- and it wasn't just on the jacket. It was smeared over his chest and blue jeans, too.

There was no way that blood was his, there was just too much of it. Still, a lot had happened to Dean in the past day, so he supposed anything was possible. He began checking himself out, trying to find the source of the blood loss.

As far as Dean could tell, there was nothing wrong with him, besides the terrible headache. As the sirens grew closer, he put a shaking and to his forehead to try and stave off the pain until he could get something like morphine into his system. Surprisingly, the action didn't bring any comfort, just confusion and panic.

Slowly, wincing even though there wasn't any pain, Dean pushed his index finger into the hole in his forehead. "Shit," he muttered, taking off his jacket and spreading his wings, eager to get back to the motel room before the cops found him.

* * *

He eased the door to the room open as quietly as possible, gently slapping a hand over his forehead before walking into the room. The last thing Dean needed that night was for Sam, who was already freaking out about the whole angel-thing, to see a bullet hold in big brother's head.

Fortunately, Sam was sprawled out on the bed, their father's journal lying open beside him, and seemed to be dead to the world. That was a good thing.

Dean tiptoed across the room, tossing his jacket lightly onto his bed as he went, and walked into the small bathroom. He closed the old door and made sure it was firmly locked behind him before he turned to the large mirror to truly assess the damage.

He moved his hand away slowly, gasping at what he saw under the fluorescent lights. He'd realized during the flight back to the motel that the bullet had probably gone all the way through. There was just no other explanation for that odd, cool sensation that had seemed to travel from the front of his head to the back.

A small, neat little hole of light could be seen in the middle of the hunter's forehead. "Well, that can't be good," he muttered as he gingerly poked the bloody area around the wound. Slowly, he made his way closer to the hole. His finger hovered only centimeters above it as he contemplated the consequences of sticking it in.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door, startling the already-shaken hunter enough to make him jump. There was a sick squelching sound as his finger slid into the bullet hole. "What?" he shouted, shuddering as he touched his own brain.

"You all right?" Sam asked. He sounded angry.

Dean sighed, pulling his finger out of the wound and grimacing at the blood that covered it. "Sure, man. Never better."

"Good, 'cause you were out kind of late. What were you doing?"

"Just thinking," Dean replied, placing his hands on the counter and hanging his head. Fresh blood oozed from the hole and dripped into the sink.

"Really?" Sam asked, "are you sure that's all? Because I was watching the news tonight while you were gone, and there was a pretty interesting story on every channel."

"Al Gore finally confess to inventing the iPod?"

"No, Dean. There was a suicide attempt in the closest city. It's only a few miles from here. The girl jumped out of her hotel room window."

Dean's head shot up, splattering a few tiny, crimson droplets of blood onto the grimy old mirror. "What?"

"Yeah. Apparently, she was saved at the last minute by an angel. A bunch of people saw him, Dean. Any ideas on this mystery man's identity?"

The older man sighed. "Can't this wait until morning, Sammy? I'm kind of busy right now."

"What could you possibly be doing in there that's more important than me yelling at you because you're a stupid ass?"

What was he supposed to say? _Well, checking out the severity of this new head-hole's pretty high on my important-stuff-to-do-tonight list, but if you're really that into bitching about life-and-death matters, be my guest. _Yeah, probably not what Sam wanted to hear at that precise moment in time.

"Nothing," he muttered, "what do you want to talk to me about, exactly?"

He could hear Sam snort through the door, and knew that the younger man was angry. Well, they both had their little problems, then, didn't they? "Come out of there, Dean. We should do this face-to-face."

"Uh," Dean glanced back at the hole in his forehead, then at the rest of him. Blood had dried on almost every visible surface of his body. He looked like a mess. "Don't think that's such a good idea right now."

Sam sighed. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, there's something in there you don't want me to see."

Dean smirked. "You're right. It'd just make you jealous."

"Dean, if you don't come out, I'm coming in." Despite the smile that could be heard in Sam's voice, Dean knew he was being serious. And that just wasn't an option at the moment.

"Seriously," he shouted as he heard the lock start to jiggle as Sam began working it, "you don't wanna come in here."

The doorknob started to turn and Dean shoved his hand up over the hole again, trying to cover it up, even though he was covered in his own blood and Sam was bound to ask about that.

The door slid open, revealing a very tall, very annoyed hunter. "You can't just go out wherever you want to now, Dean. You have _wings_. That's not normal. You know what they do to guys with wings? They-"

He stopped suddenly, finally seeing the dried blood on his older brother's face, hands, chest, and jeans. He glanced back into the bedroom and saw the bloody jacket lying on the bed.

"What happened?" he asked weakly.

Dean grinned shakily. "Sam, I don't think I can die."

"Where did _that _come from?"

"Look," the angel muttered, moving his hand away from his forehead.

"What?"

"Don't you see it?"

"All I see is your blood-soaked face. Dean, what happened?"

"I got shot, dude, that's what happened! There's freaking hole in my head."

"There's nothing there," Sam said quietly, backing away from the door, "nothing."

Dean spun back around to look in the mirror. Sam was right. The hole was gone, like it had never even been there.


	8. Chapter 8

Uh-oh. I'm not quite finished with this fic yet, and now my postings are catching up with me... Must... write...more!

* * *

"I'm telling you," Dean muttered, "I can't die. I got shot in the head and it didn't kill me."

Sam rolled his eyes. Leave it to Dean to try so desperately to change the subject. "I know what you're doing, and it's not going to work. We're gonna have this talk."

"It's not about the talk," the elder said, walking up to his bed and sticking a hand under his pillow, "it's about this." He turned back around, a recently-sharpened hunting knife held firmly in his hand.

"What are you going to do with that?" Sam asked, taking a step closer to his brother.

"Prove that I'm not avoiding whatever cruel punishment you might have hashed out for me," Dean smirked, plunging the knife deep into his heart.

It took almost a whole second for Sam's brain to process what he was seeing, another second for him to realize that he was, in fact, awake. After that, time just seemed to slow down.

Dean's eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids closed as his hand fell slack, leaving the knife wedged in his chest, and he fell back on the bed, still as death. Blood trickled down his side and began pooling on the bedspread.

Sam stared at his brother, trying to process what had happened. It had _looked_ like Dean had plunged his favorite knife into his heart to try and get out of having the whole 'with great power comes great responsibility, idiot' talk. But that couldn't have really happened, right? Dean might have been a little slower than most, but he wasn't stupid enough to stab himself in the chest. Or was he?

Slowly, the younger hunter crept towards his brother's still form. It had to have been a joke. Yeah, there was no other explanation. The knife was a fake, as was the blood. Dean had obviously anticipated the lecture that would follow his arrival after the news got out, and he'd wanted to avoid it. What better way to get out of an uncomfortable position than the scare the shit out of your little brother?

Sam reached out and grabbed the knife. He pulled it out of his brother's chest and inspected it for a moment before tears began to well in his eyes and he threw it to the ground. The damn thing was real. It was pure silver, covered in his brother's blood, and still warm. And Dean was dead.

Yeah, there was that.

Moaning low in his throat like a wounded animal, Sam sank back onto his bed and stared at his brother. He'd always known Dean would die someday, but the knowledge hadn't prepared him for the shock of the actual event. He'd never in his wildest dreams imagined that his brother would be capable of committing suicide, either. And he'd definitely never thought that his less-than-angelic guardian would wind up being buried with wings.

Not that he would be buried. No, he had to be burned. It was best if he was allowed to move on.

Sam hung his head, watching as warm tears stained his jeans. He realized that he was being awfully rational about everything, but figured that once the shock of the fatal stabbing had worn off, he'd be in hysterics.

"Man," he muttered, "how stupid can you get?"

The room was silent, his brother unmoving. That was to be expected, though, wasn't it?

The young hunter sighed and looked up at his brother's body. Dean was covered in blood, save a small circular space in the middle of his forehead about the circumference of a bullet. He shook his head.

Suddenly, Dean's eyes snapped open and he rolled over onto his stomach, gasping and coughing. He shuddered, stretching his wings out behind him as he shook his head and turned to face his brother. "These stupid things keep getting in the way," he complained, "don't know how I'll get to sleep tonight."

Sam felt his jaw drop, his eyes traveling to the sickening, bloody hole in his brother's chest. "You-"

"Told you I couldn't die," Dean smirked, inspecting the wound, "damn, I shoved that mother in deep, didn't I?"

Sammy just gaped.

"You know, Sam, that's a good way to catch flies."

"There's a hole in your stomach."

"And there was another one in my head until a few minutes ago. Went all the way through, too."

"You think it just healed by itself?" Again, the shock was too great to let any panic through. That would come later, hopefully after Dean had gone to sleep.

"No, it didn't happen quick enough."

"You think you did it yourself."

Dean shrugged, walking up to the mirror and checking out his reflection. "Just my luck, huh? First these sissy-ass wings, then the Whitelighter healing thing, now I'm freaking Wolverine. This week can't get any worse."

"Week?" Sam asked, smiling, "dude, it's only been a day."

"Don't remind me," the elder groaned, shoulders slumping and wings following suit. He placed a hand over his heart and watched intently as it began to glow. "That is just not right."

"What's not right is you being able to stab yourself and then stand up and laugh about it," Sam pointed out, "and you said someone shot you in the head on your way back here?"

Dean nodded, sitting down on the bed and running a hand over his flawless skin. "Yeah. That girl I saved, Holly, lived in a neighborhood near the city, so I walked her home. I asked her why she was trying to kill herself, and she said she's different. She's different like you."

"She's psychic?"

"Yep. Pyrokinesis. She's a firestarter."

Sam sighed. Wings, healing, immortality, and now spontaneous combustion. Dean had been right. One hell of a day. "You think they've gotten her?"

"If by 'they,' you mean the cult, no. She just didn't give off that evil vibe. Plus, she was trying to off herself because of her powers. Those hooded freaks seemed to be all right with what they were and what they could do."

"I guess," Sam muttered, "but it's still possible that she was tricking you. I mean, you walk her home and end up getting shot in the head? That's just not normal. Nebraska isn't exactly the drive-by capital of the world, Dean."

The elder man grinned. "That's exactly what she said." He stood up and headed toward the bathroom, grabbing his duffel back off a chair as he went.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, standing up.

Dean spun around and sighed. "To take a shower. In case you haven't noticed, I've been shot and stabbed tonight. Those two particular kinds of injuries tend to produce a lot of blood. Blood is bad, because when people see it, they automatically think you're dying. Lucky for me, water has the magical ability to wash blood away. The shower sprays water. See the connection, Sammy?"

Sam grinned. "No offense, dude, but that's just not possible right now. I don't think you'll fit."

"How else am I gonna get cleaned up?" Dean asked, scowling, "you gonna take me out back and hose me off?"

* * *

"Spread 'em."

Grumbling, humiliated, stripped to his boxers, and freezing to death, Dean Winchester spread his arms. "This has got to be the most embarrassing thing I've ever done," he muttered.

"Now the wings," Sam grinned, checking the nozzle on the hose that he and his brother had found out behind the motel. It seemed to be in proper working order, and was the only plausible way to get Dean cleaned up at the moment.

Mumbling curses under his breath, Dean flared his wings, cringing as Sam turned on the hose and a blast of frigid water hit him, washing the blood off.

The spigot squealed in protest as Sam turned the water off, smiling as he turned to look back at Dean, who was dripping wet and shivering, water cascading from his body in rivulets that sparkled under the moon.

"Can we go inside now?" Dean shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to keep warm.

Sam nodded and followed his brother back to the bright warmth of their little room. Immediately, Dean had grabbed a towel and started drying off. He stopped, however, when he noticed Sam staring at him.

"You know," he grinned mischeviously, "I'm aware that I'm a sex god, but that staring's making me uncomfortable. Incest is outlawed, you know."

Sam shook his head, face turning red. "Sick, man. I wasn't staring at you. It's those things. I don't think they can get wet."

Dean looked generally surprised and twisted to get a better look at the wings that were sprouting from his back. He ran a hand gently over a few of the feathers and shrugged. "What do you know, I'm part duck, too."

Sammy rolled his eyes and plopped down on his bed. "Whatever. Look, I think we should pay a visit to your little girlfriend tomorrow, see if she's got anything to do with that cult, huh?"

Dean nodded, pulling on a pair of jeans and flopping belly-down onto his own bed. "Whatever floats your boat, just as long as we find a way to get me back to normal before leaving town. I saw a little old church on the way here the other day. Maybe someone there'll have answers."

"Sounds good." Sam agreed. But he wasn't so sure. With what they did, everything they faced, all of the close calls they'd had over the past couple of years, maybe a little immortality was just what his legally dead brother needed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter number nine. All right. Time for some Sammy.

* * *

He'd known it would happen. It was worming its way slowly into his system. _Panic_.

This curse was like nothing he and his brother had ever faced before, and that scared Sam a whole lot more than he let on. Some pretty messed up things had happened to them in the past, but nothing had ever changed physical appearances. And there was that healing thing. And the immortality.

He shuddered as he stepped out of the shower and caught sight of the blood splattered over the sink and mirror. There were a few droplets on the floor that had dried before he'd stepped into the shower and let the warm water run over him.

It was going to become a problem. Hell, it already _was_ a problem.

Dean had been shot in the freakin' head. And he'd lived to tell about it. That, more than anything else, scared Sam.

The younger hunter made his way slowly from the bathroom, glancing at his brother's sleeping form as he yanked on a pair of pants and an old shirt. Dean was lying on his stomach, wings spread out over him like a blanket. A couple of white feathers lay on the floor by the bed.

Sam plopped down on his bed, picking at the dried blood that had settled onto the sheets. There would be questions about that if they couldn't get it out. They would have to make up some story about how one of them was prone to nose bleeds in the night. It was bound to work. It had worked before.

His eyes traveled back to the bedside table, where the Bible sat. He looked back at his brother, sound asleep and snoring, wings grazing the floor. Slowly, Sam reached out and ran a tentative hand over the nearest wing.

It was soft, too soft to be anything attached to his big brother's body. And it was warm, which didn't make any sense at all. His fingers caressed the feathers, moving up and down, as he thought. It was a joke, or a dream. Yeah, he was dreaming.

Dean moaned and stirred in bed, the wing twitching and flexing, causing Sam to pull his hand away. It was real. No joke. But there had to be an explanation, and it sure as hell couldn't have been the one his brother had given him.

Slowly, Sam stood up and backed toward the door, grabbing the room key off the table as he went. He needed answers, and, unless his memory was playing tricks on him, he knew where to get them.

* * *

The old church appeared to be abandoned, but that didn't stop Sam from testing the doors. They slid open easily enough and he walked in. The building was bigger inside than it had appeared to be out, and pews spread out on either side of the hunter. A carpeted aisle ran down the middle of the room, leading to an alter. Moonlight flooded through the stained glass windows, bathing the church in eerie colors.

A solitary figure sat in the pew nearest the alter, hunched over in prayer. Slowly, Sam made his way up to the person, hoping to find out who the local priest was. He slid into the pew besides the short, knobby old man, who looked up with mild interest at the added weight on the bench.

"Hello, there, sonny," the old man smiled warmly, "what brings you here at this late hour?"

Sam shrugged, deciding to rattle off the first logical story that came to mind. "I was looking for answers. Do you happen to know who the minister here is?"

The old man's smile widened. "That would be me, Father Emerson." He sat back in the pew. "What is it you have a question about, young man?"

"Oh, well, first off, my name's Sam. I was wondering what you know about angels."

The priest nodded. "Angels. Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. I believe that they are real and that they walk among us. Maybe they don't have wings or halos, but they are here. It's the nice young woman who helps me carry my groceries from the car into the house, or the stranger who gives his blood for the life of another, or the man who pulls his younger sibling out of a fire."

Sam's heart stopped. "What?"

"They're all angels, in a way, Sam. They help those in need, even though they don't have to. My neighbor could easily stay inside her house and let me risk injury walking over patches of ice in the winter with heavy bags in my arms, but she doesn't. If it weren't for blood drives, millions of people would be dead now. That brother could have run out of the burning house screaming, saving his own skin, but he didn't. It's that little bit of selflessness that shows through from time to time."

Sammy nodded, a little relieved. For a minute there he'd thought the old man was a mind-reader. "That's great, but I was kind of wondering about the wings-and-halos kind. Do you know anything about them?"

Father Emerson shrugged. "A bit. Is there anything in particular?"

"How would a person become a wings-and-halo angel? Is there any way besides dying?"

The priest looked truly perplexed by the question, and closed his eyes in concentration. "I can't think of any reference to that sort of thing happening in the Bible, in popular culture, anywhere. Why would you ask?"

"Curious," Sam shrugged, trying on a grin that felt fake, "do you have a theory? Could it be possible?"

"Sam," Emerson smiled, "with God, _anything_ is possible. You just have to believe."

"What if you didn't believe? What if you denied the existence of good in the world, because you thought that evil wiped it all out? Would it still be possible?"

"Is there a point to all of this, sonny? Because you're confusing me a bit. Why would you want to know?"

Sam shook his head. "You wouldn't be believe me."

"I believe a lot of things, Sam. For example, I believe that there is a great evil force working out of this town, and I believe that you know about it. I believe that you are here to stop it. You should know that you're not alone here. There may be a great evil at work, but there is also a great good. Now, tell me why you want to know about angels."

Sam sighed. "My brother. He's…different than he used to be. He's never believed in God. Never believed in good. Only evil. Everything's evil, nothing can help. I got kidnapped, and I guess he yelled at the wrong person. He's not like he used to be, Father, and it's scaring me. He can do things now. But he still doesn't believe. Why would God give him wings if he's not going to change?"

The old man hung his head. "I think your brother's the one you should be asking."

Sammy shook his head. "He never talks to me. He thinks it's a curse."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. He told me."

"Is it possible that he lied?"

Sam snorted. "Why would he lie about something like that?"

Emerson shrugged. "Sometimes people tell untruths to hide the way they feel because it would be seen as unacceptable. Tell me, Sam, is there any reason this 'curse' would be considered unacceptable?"

"I told him…" Sam began, but trailed off. "I kind of told him he was a freak. That if he got caught… I think I made it unacceptable."

The priest nodded. "Go make it right." A small, sly smile crossed his aged face, "after all, he's not the only freak in the family."

"Thanks," Sam grinned, standing up and shaking the old man's gnarled hand, "thanks a lot."


	10. Chapter 10

Shorter chapter this time, but it's good. Trust me. You _do_ trust me, don't you?

* * *

Holly Monroe sat behind the hulk of the Impala, smiling to herself. The police had, apparently, taken Dean's body away the night before. That was good. The winged John Doe was probably being poked and prodded at that very moment, as she and two of her colleagues waited in the motel parking lot for the perfect opportunity to recapture their future member.

The three psychics peeked over the trunk and gasped as Dean Winchester walked out of his motel room, talking to someone inside, and pulled a leather jacket over his shoulders. They slid back behind the car.

"I thought you said you got him," Holly hissed, glaring at her friends.

"Hey, you thought he was dead, too," one of the young men pointed out.

"Yes, but I can't see spirits like you can. I just assumed you knew he wasn't there."

"Well," the third psychic muttered, breaking up a potentially lethal fight before it could begin, "we were wrong. Now we just need to come up with another plan. Try to kill him again."

"Or," Holly grinned, peeking back over the trunk as Dean returned to the room with a newspaper and two cups of coffee, "we could just use this to our advantage. After all, sometimes life is a better incentive than death."

* * *

The minute Dean walked back through the motel room door he slid his jacket off and stretched his wings. It just seemed wrong to keep them hidden, and keeping them folded tightly to his body for long periods of time was starting to hurt.

"You know," Sam muttered, glancing up from the website on cults he was searching through, "if our lives were a TV show, this would be everyone's favorite episode."

"Ok," Dean said, sitting down on the bed and staring at his younger sibling, "why?"

"You've been walking around for the past couple of days without a shirt on. Haven't you ever seen 'Smallville?' It's not the excellent plotlines that keep people tuning in each week. It's Tom Welling. _Shirtless_."

"Oh. Well, now that I know why you're so intent on getting back to the room every Thursday night-"

"I'm serious, Dean. You can't just walk around shirtless all the time. Pick some clothes that we can cut up."

Dean shook his head. "No need. I'm not planning on this being a permanent arrangement. Once we take down this cult, we're gonna head on over to that church and-"

"I went last night. The priest doesn't know how to help. I think you're just gonna have to get used to it."

Dean sighed. "Not an option. Besides, I'm all for making the fangirls happy. Can't have a show without them, after all."

Sam stood up and headed for the door. "I'm getting your stuff and pulling the scissors out of the trunk. Get ready to pick a shirt." He walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone on the bed, smiling.

_No way out_. Well, things could always be worse. Besides, the whole flying-thing was actually starting to grow on him.

He groaned as someone knocked at the door, assuming that Sam had found what he was looking for and was planning on making Dean destroy his clothing. However, when he pulled the door open he found Holly Monroe standing there, beaming.

"Holly?"

"Dean," she grinned, pushing her way into the room, "I wasn't sure I'd find you here. I just… I was worried, I guess. There was a shooting near our neighborhood last night, and the cops found blood at the scene. I thought maybe you'd been hurt."

"Um, no," he muttered, watching her suspiciously as she nudged the door closed.

"Oh, thank goodness for that. I just wouldn't be able to live with myself if something had happened to you."

"I'm fine, really," Dean said nervously. He was starting to feel closed in, claustrophobic, and it seemed like the room was heating up.

Holly smiled wide. "Good, good."

Dean nodded, feeling the first beads of sweat dripping down his brow. "Hey, is it getting hot in here or something?"

Holly's good-natured smile turned into something malicious, something evil. "Of course it is, silly. Hard to get to your brother with you in the picture."

The hunter coughed, beginning to feel light-headed as the room continued to heat up around him. The psychic kept smiling, her eyes dancing with unnatural fire-light as she fed whatever energy she had into warming the room.

Finally, his body failed him, and Dean fell to the floor, unconscious, as the thermostat reached a boiling 105 degrees. Still smiling, Holly hefted him up and passed him out the room's back window to her waiting colleagues. Then, she sat down on the bed and waited for her intended victim.

* * *

Sam sighed and pulled the duffel bag farther up onto his shoulder as he dug in his pocket for the room key. As much as he hated to admit it, things were looking bad. The cult was still at large, and Dean… well, Dean was messed up beyond repair, or so it seemed.

He pushed open the door and was met by a wave of boiling heat. "Man," Sammy said, taking a step into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him, "you get cold or something? It's like a freakin' desert in here."

"Oh? I'd say more like a jungle," a cool, oddly familiar female voice cooed from behind him, "humidity and all."

Sam spun around, dropping the bag, to face a redhead with a big grin on her face. "Who are you?"

"Your new leader," she smirked as the Bible that had been sitting on the bedside table suddenly lifted from its resting place and flew through the air to hit Sam over the head.

One of the other psychics poked his head through the window to check on his handy work.

"Congrats," Holly drawled, struggling to lift Sam out of the window and into the back lot of the motel, "we got him."


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry for the long wait for an update after that evil cliffie :) The document manager hates me...

* * *

It was definitely cooler in his cell than it had been in the room before Dean's world had gone black. His hands were shackled over his head and he was pressed up against a damp cement wall that was cold enough to make him wish Sam had returned to the room before Holly had attacked.

He gazed around the cell, concrete with a barred door. He tugged on his restraints and found that they didn't budge. Odd, considering his earlier show of strength in the same dungeon.

The cell door creaked slowly open and Dean found himself staring into Holly's cold green eyes. She smiled warmly at him as she walked up and traced a finger down his chest to his belly button. "Good to see you're up, sweetie," she cooed.

"You played me," Dean hissed, "you _tricked_ me."

Holly chuckled. "Wasn't _that_ hard, fly boy. Did you really think Father would let something as useful as me slip past? I was one of his first recruits, along with Jimmy and Claire. Jimmy was a telepath, had actually been reading you throughout that poor girl's funeral the other day. He's also the one you killed yesterday when you pulled that annoyingly heroic stunt. Claire's our resident healer. Needless to say, you'll be seeing a lot of her."

"Is that some kind of threat?" Dean asked, trying to come up with a plan to get him out of the mess and hoping that they hadn't gotten Sam, too.

"As a matter of fact, it isn't. See, we can't kill you. Claire's just not strong enough to bring the dead back to life. She is, however, powerful enough to heal someone who's just been tortured within an inch of his life."

"So you'll just keep hurting me? Won't that get old?"

Holly shook her head. "No. See, we need you alive to get Sammy to join us. Right now, you're our leverage."

The angel sighed. Well, that answered the question of whether or not Sam was safe. Now the only thing to worry about was the impending torture. "Not much leverage unless you threaten my life."

"Oh, this is going to be _very_ life-threatening."

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked, "_whip_ me? Hate to break it to you, Hols, but that won't work. At least, it didn't when your mind-reader tried it. Sam's fine, and he's nowhere _near_ as resilient as I am."

Holly's smile faded as her brow creased. "Well, I'll just have to step it up a notch."

Dean nodded. "Right. Your boy Jimmy must've been pretty weak if _you _can top him."

The firestarter scowled and Dean realized he'd struck a cord. Any other time, it would have been a signal to back off, but considering the circumstances, the hunter decided to continue his ribbing, just to get a little more time to think. He needed to get her to attack him, mortally wound him. If Holly thought he was dead, he could work on breaking out of the cell and saving his brother again. If nothing else, the human flamethrower might just inadvertently melt the shackles that bound him to the walls.

"You didn't know Jimmy like I did," Holly muttered.

"You're right, and I'm glad I didn't. Guy strikes me as kind of a sissy. Bet he didn't even get Sam to cry. Hell, _Ronald McDonald _can make Sammy bawl. Jimmy's not even as scary as a friggin clown! Oh, sorry, my mistake. He _wasn't_ as scary."

"Shut up."

"Buh duh buh ba baa…"

"I told you to _shut up_!"

Dean was about to open his mouth and spout off another stupid reply when a wave of heat hit his body with so much force that it knocked the wind out of him. He felt his body beginning to burn before he even saw the fire leaping up around him. He tried to scream, but his voice was lost in the roar of the flames. Skin and hair began to char as the hunter's head dropped to the side and fire consumed his body.

* * *

It leapt out of her before she could hold it back. Holly stood in the cell and watched the angel burn, wondering briefly what it felt like, if he was thinking of his mother, and what she was going to do about the precog now that her only leverage was dead.

The fire alarm began to sound as smoke rose into the air from the angel's charred body. Other cult members raced into the basement prison to see what was happening. Holly felt someone pull her away from the large fire, heard someone yelling at her to stop it before she burnt the place to the ground.

She fell to her knees, surrounded by friends, and pulled it back. The fire stopped burning immediately. A few psychics headed out of the cell and went back up to their rooms, sickened by the smell of burnt flesh and hair that emanated from the angel.

"He… he said," Holly whispered, tears falling from her bright eyes and hitting the cold concrete floor, "Jimmy…."

"It's ok," the man holding her back muttered, stroking her hair as smoke drifted lazily over their heads, "it's over now. He's dead."

Holly nodded slowly. "The brother won't join us now. Not after this. We have no way…. I'm sorry. I ruined it."

The man sighed. "Father won't be pleased, Holly, but I'm sure he'll understand. Maybe _he_ can persuade the precog, huh? Buck up. We'll get him."

Holly nodded again, standing shakily and turning back to her victim. His body had been blackened beyond recognition. His hair had been burnt completely off. The only part of his body that seemed to be untouched were those freakishly white wings, seeming to glow behind the dark, disfigured body of their owner.

"Bring in the brother to see him," Holly muttered, "he should see what we do when you cross us."

"Back to Plan A, huh?" her colleague asked.

The firestarter chuckled, turning and allowing him to help her out of the cell. They had reached the door when the coughing started. Both psychics turned to the hunter's body and were incredibly surprised to find him smiling at them with black, crumbling lips.

Holly took a tentative step toward him, reaching out a hand and dragging it slowly over his burnt chest. Large flakes of dark, dead skin peeled away under her hand and she pulled it back, disgusted. "You can't die, can you?" she asked slowly, looking up into Dean's eyes, shining brightly out of his blackened face.

"Disappointed?" he asked, voice raspy from smoke inhalation, skin falling from his charred lips as he spoke.

Holly grinned, taking a step back and looking her victim over. "Quite the contrary." She turned back to her partner, "go get Claire. We need to heal him before we continue with the plan." She turned on her heels and stalked out of the cell to get her old boyfriend's 'tools of persuasion.'

* * *

Dean shook his head and watched, disgusted, as large flakes of black skin fell to the ground around him. Had being burnt alive hurt? Like hell. In fact, as he had stood in the cell and been consumed by fire, he'd felt closer to his mother than he ever had before. There weren't strong enough words in the English language to describe that kind of pain and panic.

Even worse, he'd come back. To most people, that would have seemed like a good thing, but Dean was not in a resurrection mood at the moment, especially since his once-perfect body had been burnt to a literal crisp. Not good when it came to picking up chicks.

The cell door opened and a petite woman in a long robe walked in. She gasped loudly as she saw the kind of condition Dean was in.

"Hey," Dean grinned, hating the rasping quality of his voice.

"Hey," the woman replied, pulling off her hood and revealing bright blue eyes and raven hair, "Holly said I wouldn't believe this."

Dean nodded, watching more skin fall onto the floor. "Think you can help me?"

The psychic nodded. "Maybe. I'm Claire."

"I guessed."

"So," she began, walking slowly up and placing her hands gingerly on his chest, "immortal?"

"I'm assuming."

"You're lucky. This isn't the first time Holly's gone after someone's family to get them to join up. She threatened my step-mom and older sister to get me here. Knowing that they're still safe and alive is what keeps me here."

"There a reason you're telling me this?" Dean asked as she moved up to his face.

"I don't want Sam forced into this. Just because I'm a member doesn't mean I want to be. And I want to warn you. Holly's ruthless. She'll do whatever it takes. Just watch yourself."

"Will do," the hunter grinned as the healer moved on to his arms. He chanced a glance down at his stomach and breathed a sigh of relief. Fresh skin, not even a scar.

Claire stepped back, face red. "Um, I'm sorry," she muttered, "but I'm gonna have to get your legs. Holly gave me these for you when I'm done." She held out a pair of powder blue pajama pants.

Dean nodded, realizing that his pants had disintegrated with most of his skin and hair.

* * *

Holly walked back into the cell with a briefcase under her arm to find Dean still shackled to the wall, completely healed and wearing the pants she'd given Claire. The healer had already left, her job done. "You look good," she smiled, setting the case down and popping it open, "your hair's even back."

"Yep," Dean grinned, nodding as he watched Holly rifle through the case.

"Got it," the psychic grinned, pulling a long, silver knife out of the briefcase. She stood and stalked quietly up to the angel.

"What are you gonna do?" Dean asked, eyeing the long knife amusedly, "cut off my head?"

"No," Holly chuckled, watching the knife glint under the dim lights of the basement, "lower." She burst out laughing as the look on her victim's face changed from one of mild amusement to one of pure terror. Green eyes glinting maniacally, she lunged.

* * *

Sam found himself in a very familiar predicament. He was chained up in a cold dungeon. At least his restraints were looser this time. From somewhere off in the distance, probably down the corridor that lie just beyond his cell door, someone let out a pain-filled shriek that chilled Sammy to the bone. He knew that scream, even though he'd only heard it once or twice in his lifetime. _Dean_. 


	12. Chapter 12

High time for an update, huh? As always, thanks a ton for reviewing like you do!

* * *

"Rise and shine, baby," the cool voice cooed as Dean came to. He shook his head groggily and looked around the room. Holly was standing in front of him with a humungous smile on her pretty face. Blood covered her robe and hands. The knife lay on the floor near the briefcase, completely covered with tacky red liquid. The last thing he could remember was Holly shoving the long knife into his stomach.

"What'd you do?" he asked, looking her up and down. One hand was held behind her back.

Holly giggled like a schoolgirl. "Don't worry. If your brother comes through for you, you won't be missing anything."

"But until then…?"

"Until then," she smiled, stalking up to him, "I'll be keeping this." She nodded back over her shoulder, to the thing hidden in her hand.

"Mind telling me what it is?" Dean asked, though he wasn't completely sure he wanted to find out.

The smile widened as Holly revealed her prize. "Look familiar?"

Dean's eyes widened with shock as he looked down at his stomach and chest, which had been split open by the knife after he'd fallen unconscious. A section of his flesh and ribcage had been pulled away from the rest of him, leaving the left side of his insides completely exposed.

He looked back up at Holly and the item she was holding in her hand. "Oh, come on, lady," he muttered, fighting back fear as he gazed at his own, unbeating heart, "that ain't even freakin _possible_."

"That's what I thought," Holly grinned, poking mercilessly at the organ, "I mean, I'm amazed you even woke up. It's not even _beating_. Dean, it's _cold._"

The hunter glanced back down at the hole where half of his body used to be. He had to admit to himself that it had been kind of cool at first, realizing he couldn't die. Now it was just _really_ disturbing.

"Just out of curiosity," he muttered, watching his left lung as he tried to slow his breathing, "what're you gonna do with me?"

"That depends on what your brother decides," she said coolly, turning the hunter's heart over in her hands, "I wonder what he'd think of what's become of big brother."

"You wouldn't."

"Watch me," Holly smirked as she headed out of the cell, tucking Dean's heart behind her back as she went down the corridor to where Sam was undoubtedly being held.

* * *

Sam had to admit that he was enjoying his current stay in the evil psychic cult's basement. Sure, he was chained up and being heavily guarded, but at least no one was torturing him.

He was worried about his brother, however. He could have sworn he'd heard Dean screaming, and just before that he'd smelled something burning. It was that sickly-sweet smell of roasting flesh.

But Dean couldn't die, right? Right. He'd also been exhibiting a higher tolerance for pain in the past 24 hours, so Sam was confident that whatever they were doing couldn't be hurting his brother too much.

Still, the smell and the scream were unnerving.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor and Sam tensed, ready to face whatever news came through his cell door. He was surprised to see Holly, covered in a large amount of blood, come stalking into his cell, smiling.

"What do you want?" he asked, gruffly, trying hard to not show the worry and fear that was gnawing at his stomach as he realized just how much blood coated the young psychic.

She smiled, shrugging, and Sam noticed for the first time that she was holding something behind her back. "I just wanted to show you something, then have a little talk concerning what you can do about it."

"What is this, show and tell?"

Holly nodded, stepping closer, that large, unattractive smile never leaving her face. "Tell me Sammy," she cooed, "do you know what _this_ is?" She pulled her hand from behind her back, revealing what looked like a human heart.

Sam felt his eyes widen as his body suddenly went numb. His mind scrambled for an answer, something other than the obvious, but couldn't find it. He suddenly knew why he'd heard his brother scream, and realized that, angel or not, _no one _could live without a heart.

"You didn't," he muttered weakly, breath hitching in his chest as he stared at the organ in her hand, "you…"

The firestarter laughed, an evil cackle that reverberated through the room, echoing down the corridor. "Oh, Sammy, I did. But there's good news. Your brother isn't dead."

Sam blinked hard, trying to hide tears that threatened to pour from his eyes. He wasn't going to cry in front of her, wouldn't give her the pleasure. "What are you talking about?"

"He's awake. Do you want to go see him?"

"Do I have a choice?" Sammy asked as two hooded figured glided into the room and took hold of his arms, unshackling him.

"Not really. Trust me, though, Sam, you'll want to see this. It's fascinating."

He was dragged from the room by the two psychics and forced to follow Holly down the concrete corridor to his brother's cell. She pushed open the door and walked into the cell while Sam's escort held him back.

"There's someone outside who wants to see you," she cooed.

"Bitch," Sam heard his brother hiss. It was all he could do to just stand still and let himself get taken into his brother's cell. It was impossible. There was no way…

And then Sam saw him, arms shackled up over his head, blood coating the light blue pajama pants he'd been given. The wall he was chained to was scorched and black, as if someone had taken a blow torch to it. But he was alive, and for that, Sammy was glad, if not a bit disgusted by his brother's current condition.

It looked as if someone had stabbed Dean in the stomach, right above his navel, and then proceeded to slash up towards his throat. The hunter's sternum had been cut roughly up the middle. The incision moved up towards the left after hitting the collar bone, and that whole side of Dean's chest had been pulled away, revealing bones, organs, and a large hole where his heart had once been.

The psychics let go of Sam and he rushed to his brother, slipping slightly in the large pool of blood that had formed on the cell floor. Dean didn't seem too perturbed by his injury; in fact, the only indication that he'd even been hurt at all, besides the large cut, was the paleness of his skin. That was to be expected, though. He'd lost a lot of blood.

"Sammy, hey. What's up?"

"Oh, crap, Dean, what the hell did they do to you?"

Dean shrugged. "Far as I can tell, cut me open and decided to perform open heart surgery. Just like on 'Grey's,' only without the following stroke. You all right? You look kind of sick."

"Look who's talking," Sam gasped, always aware of Holly standing behind him, poking at his brother's heart like it was some kind of toy.

"I'll be fine. It doesn't even hurt that much, which is lucky, I guess."

Sam shook his head and turned away from his brother, back to Holly, who was watching them with mild interest. "What do you think, Sam? Cool, huh?"

"What do you want from me?" Sam demanded.

"We need you to join us," Holly grinned, "it's not as bad as you think. We'll help you control those visions. You'll be safe and warm and loved. You'll like it here, Sammy. I promise."

"What about Dean?"

Holly shrugged. "Well, if you agree to join us, I'll just put this right back where I found it, get Claire in here to heal him up, and send him on his merry way."

"And if I don't?"

That evil grin was back. "I'd like to see how far this immortality thing can take him. Honestly, Sam, how many limbs and vital organs do you think I can cut away before he dies? If it comes down to it, I guess I can always take the head off. If that doesn't kill him, I guess he'll make a nice paperweight."

Sammy sighed, turning back to his brother. Determination shone in the older man's eyes, masking subtle fear. That _definitely_ hadn't been what he'd wanted to hear.

"Whatever they do to me, don't give in," Dean hissed, pleading with his brother as best he could.

"She stole your heart," Sam pointed out, glancing down at the hole in his brother's chest.

"Well," Dean smirked, "can you blame her? She _is_ really hot."

"Dean," Sam scolded, fighting back tears, "this isn't funny."

"I know," the elder grimaced, "I think you just spit on my small intestine."

Sam shook his head, whirling around to face the monster that had taken his brother's heart. He wasn't going to let her take anything else. No matter what, he couldn't let Dean go on like that. For once, Sammy was going to play savior, whether Dean liked it or not.

"I'll do it," he said, voice steady and determined, "just fix him."

"Excellent," Holly nodded as Dean muttered every curse he could think of, "Mark will take you up to your room. You'll find your robe on your bed. Get dressed and meet us in the entryway at seven for your initiation." She turned back to the men that had taken Sam from his cell, "Jake, go fetch Claire and tell her she's needed again. After she's done, let the freak with the wings go."

Sam felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned. Mark led him out of the cell and away from his protesting brother, who was obviously very unhappy about being used as leverage.

_Oh well,_ Sam thought as he was taken out of the dungeon and met by a chorus of cheers from the hooded members that were milling about, _he'll live._

* * *

Brief note: I know absolutely nothing about human anatomy, so if one of you is a doctor and currently laughing about my stupidity... sorry. 


	13. Chapter 13

I'm back with another update!

* * *

The room was nice enough, he supposed. That was to be expected, though, seeing as how it was on the third floor of the large mansion that acted as the cult's base of operations. There was a large glass door that led out to a balcony overlooking a dying cornfield, a big bed that looked to be straight out of a Harry Potter movie, and a little white bookshelf filled with books on different psychic abilities. On the bed lay a dark robe, Sam's outfit for the initiation ceremony.

Sighing, the hunter sat down on the bed and buried his head in his hands. Joining a cult was the last thing he wanted to do, something he'd never imagined he'd be agreeing to, but he didn't have a choice. Dean was in danger of… what? _Dying?_ Was that even possible anymore?

He looked up and gazed around the room once more. There was a door leading into a small bathroom in one corner, and the door leading out into the winding hallway he'd had to walk down to get to the room. If Dean had been with him, he certainly would have made some stupid comment about kids on trikes zooming through the halls.

Sam shook his head. Angels, cults, initiation rituals. The week couldn't get any worse. He stood up and walked over to the bookcase, scanning the spines of the old, thick volumes. The cult had apparently been waiting for him. Every book was about precognition.

He pulled out one of the tomes and flipped it open, skimming the pages. He barely even noticed when the first pebble hit the glass door that led onto the balcony.

Sam put the book back and continued looking over the books. A few looked newer, but most were old. He turned back to the bed and the robe. Another pebble hit the window.

Curious, Sammy turned toward the large door. A number of small stones hit the glass and scattered across the balcony. Tentatively, the hunter took a step towards the door. He was about to pull it open and step out into the fresh air of Nebraskan dusk when a large rock came sailing through the air and punched a large hole through the glass, sending sharp shards clattering to the carpet.

Sam rushed out through the doors and nearly fell off the balcony trying to see who had thrown the stone. There was no one on the grass beside the house, and no sign that anyone had ever been there.

He leaned out over the balcony, scanning the ground and the side of the house, but didn't see anyone. Shrugging, Sam turned back to the door. He hadn't even taken a step toward his room when something dropped off of the roof and landed right in front of him. Startled, he jumped back, almost falling off the balcony again, as familiar laughter reached his ears.

"Man, Sammy, little nervous?" Dean asked, chuckling as his little brother's heartbeat slowed to a normal pace.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam demanded, trying to push past his brother, who was blocking the door, and getting a face full of feathers as Dean spread his wings to halt his brother.

"I'm getting you outta here, that's what."

"You need to leave," Sam muttered, spitting out a feather and finally moving past his brother and into the room, "it's not safe for you here."

"But it is for you? Sam, I talked to that Claire girl when she was fixing me up. This initiation thing, it's not just placing your hand on some stupid book and pledging allegiance to some unseen force. The demon actually shows up to these things, inducts people himself. Once you're in, you're in for life. Those freaky visions of yours'll get better, and you'll gain control, but you'll be even closer to that son of a bitch than you are now. I'm not gonna let that happen."

Sam shook his head. "She was lying. They're all evil, Dean. She's just trying to trick you into doing something stupid."

"Evil or not, I believe her. Now, you're coming with me."

"You want to get turned into a paperweight, don't you?"

Dean smirked. "Don't be stupid, man. Holly knows my head's too light to hold anything down. Lack of brain tissue and all."

"Just get out of here before they come to see what that crash was."

The angel stood firm, though. "No way. You keep saying they're gonna do something terrible, but you know they won't. They might be evil, but they're not twisted like that. Holly was bluffing."

"I don't want something to happen to you because of me," Sam said quietly, hanging his head.

"What are they gonna do, Sammy? _Kill me?_"

"They could torture you. I don't want to see that happen."

"And you won't, not as long as we just get out of here now. Like you said, it won't take long for them to come see what made that noise." He walked onto the balcony, still facing Sam. He hopped backwards onto the railing with a flap of his wings and held out a hand, smirking. "Do you trust me?"

Sammy just shook his head and smiled. Someday, he'd have to bring up the fact that Dean had just quoted 'Aladdin,' but now was not the time. He could hear footsteps outside the room, and turned just as the thick door from the hall was thrown open.

"What's going on in here?" Mark, the man who had shown Sam to his room, bellowed as he shouldered his way through the door.

"Nothing," Sam replied, hoping like hell that Dean had had the common sense to leave when the door had burst open, "really."

"I heard a crash."

Sam shrugged. "I, uh, tripped. I was just checking out one of those books and I guess I hit a snag in the carpet and fell. The book hit the window. Sorry 'bout that."

Mark nodded, a look of understanding passing over his strong, dark face. "Nervous? You shouldn't be. Everything's easier from here on out. Father makes sure of that."

"I'm sure he does," Sam nodded, glancing quickly toward the balcony behind him and finding no trace of his big brother, save one long, white feather that any large bird could have left.

Mark smiled. "Initiation's in ten, so get ready, man." He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Sammy practically collapsed on the bed, breathing a huge sigh of relief. He waited for Dean to return, but when five minutes had passed, he figured it was time to start getting ready. With luck, his guardian angel wouldn't try anything stupid… or deadly.


	14. Chapter 14

All right. I finally finished the story on Word, so the updates should keep flowing as long as homework allows. After this chapter, there are just two more, so hold on tight!

* * *

Sam Winchester took a deep breath as he descended the staircase, heading into the entryway of the mansion, where a large number of hooded cult members had already gathered. They formed a circle, faces turned up to the stairs, watching and waiting for their newest member to join them.

Slowly, Sam entered the circle and stood within the ring of psychics, joining them in their waiting game. The large circle of light that had been thrown by the skylight above him began to fade as lightning forked across the sky, and Sam knew that the demon was on its way.

The wind began to pick up, beating against the skylight in steady, almost rhythmic gusts. Sam glanced up just as the skylight imploded, spraying the waiting psychics with sharp glass.

The hunter ducked his head, avoiding getting hit in the face, as soon as he had seen what had crashed through the roof. It wasn't the demon everyone had been waiting for, but a strapping young man with wings, coming to his brother's rescue at the last possible minute.

"What are you doing here?" Sam hissed as his brother landed beside him.

"Saving your ass, what's it look like?"

Sam glanced around the room, looking over all of the psychics, who were surrounding the brothers and starting to move in. "Oh, sorry," he said flatly, "my mistake."

Dean grumbled, flipping around so he covered his brother's back, and weighed the odds. He found Claire in the crowd, standing by a railing, and met her eyes. She nodded curtly, nudging the nearest metal railing post with her foot. From his position in the middle of the floor, Dean could see it wobble. That was good.

Sam couldn't see the post from his position, didn't know that his brother had a plan, or a back-up should the first one fail. All he knew was that Dean was at his back, and he could feel those wings twitching as his brother considered their options.

Suddenly, Dean grabbed his hand. "Hang on," he whispered as the cult began to close in faster, finally growing tired of watching what appeared to be a failed rescue attempt, "_tight._" The force of his grip increased as he spun Sam around to his side.

"What are you doing?" Sam hissed, glaring at his brother as the psychics advanced, getting closer with each passing second.

Dean smirked. "Trust me." He spread his wings and took off, Sam clinging tightly to his arm with a mixture of fear and surprise. The older man was happy to find that the strength he'd found during his first rescue mission had seemed to return, as Sam was far lighter than he would have expected.

They were nearing the skylight, and freedom, fast. The plan was going just as it should, and would undoubtedly end with the brothers sailing out through the open skylight and into freedom, packing up the Impala, and getting as far away from the evil psychics as possible.

Unfortunately, for the Winchesters, plans never do go as, well, _planned_, and a certain yellow-eyed demon chose just that moment to make his appearance.

Dean had just cleared the skylight when a flash of lightning illuminated the sky and a large black mist came into view. Before the hunter had time to react, he'd collided with the demon and was spiraling back into the mansion. He felt Sam's hand being ripped from his grasp, but could do nothing about it as the demon rammed him again, sending him straight for a collision with one of the entry's brick walls.

His head hit it straight on and his neck snapped. Dean Winchester was dead before he even hit the ground.

* * *

Sam felt himself stop falling and looked around at the ring of psychics. At least three of them were holding out their hands toward him, looks of strain and concentration on their faces. _Telekinesis._

He heard the sickening crack of his brother's neck breaking as the psychics set him down. Sam spun around to see Dean's body lying crumpled on the floor beside the wall, but he couldn't move. The cult members were still holding him.

Suddenly, Sam felt himself being slammed into the wall by an unseen force. It was then that he noticed the swirling black mass that was the demon wasn't in the room. It was in Holly.

Slowly, the possessed girl approached Dean's body, nudging his side with one high heeled shoe. "No wonder I could get into you," the demon mused, grinning as it turned to face Sam, "oh well. He's better off dead, huh, Sammy?"

"He's the only one that can call me that." Sam muttered, struggling against the demon's invisible bonds as the circle of psychics moved back out, giving their father room to breathe.

The creature's smile widened. "Well, he won't be calling you _anything_ anymore, will he?"

Sam closed his eyes. He had a good view of his brother's body, which, according to experience, should have been getting up. It wasn't. Dean just lay still on the ground, unmoving, unbreathing. "Why can't you just leave us alone?"

"Where's the fun in that?" the demon asked, "besides, if I let you go, I'd have to let everyone else go, and that's just not acceptable."

Sam opened his eyes and looked at Holly's body, slim and pretty. She stared back at him with murky yellow eyes, smile never faltering. Behind her, Dean slowly rose to his feet, head lolling on a broken neck. The angel grabbed his head and twisted it, popping his spine back into alignment and revealing a large, bloody hole where he'd hit the wall.

The demon groaned. "Guys," it muttered, "could you keep it down? Sammy and I need to have a little talk."

"F-father," one of the psychics began, but was cut off.

"_No_," the demon said sternly, "just give the adults a little quiet time here, kiddies."

"But-"

"I said shut up!"

The psychic fell silent as Dean stalked silently across the room, holding his hand to the wound on his head, and approached Claire. He grabbed the wobbly railing post and tore it off with ease, staring at it for a moment before nodding, and turned back toward Sam and the demon.

"Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?" the demon asked, clearing Holly's throat, "oh, yes, that's right. I believe it's about time for your initiation, Sammy. Trust me, it'll make things a hell of a lot easier for you."

The creature raised its hand, placing it firmly on Sam's forehead and opened its mouth to speak. At just that moment, Dean snuck up behind it and swung the post hard at Holly's head. The demon was caught off-guard and went sailing across the room, trailing blood from a nasty new hole in the firestarter's head.

"You all right?" Dean asked, turning the railing post over in his hands as he assessed his little brother for any damage.

"Think so," Sam muttered, staring at the bloody post. It wasn't very thick or long, and looked more like something you'd find outside than in. It was hard for him to tear his eyes away from the ordinary metal stick, though, because it was glowing.

Before Sam had a chance to ask about the odd, golden light emanating from the post, though, the demon was up and stalking toward the brothers, growling low its stolen throat.

"You have a death-wish, don't you, boy?" it asked, reaching out and grabbing the metal rod. It tried for maybe half a second to pull Dean's only defense from him before backing away, screaming in pain, and looking at its hand. The flesh bubbled and smoked, running off the bone like melted wax.

Dean glanced down at the post, which had lost its ethereal glow, and then back up at Holly's body. A sly smile crossed his face as he advanced toward the demon. He prepared to swing out again as two cult members came forward, ready to stop him, but the demon held up a hand.

"Let him," it gasped, "I want to see what our little angel does."

Dean's smile turned into a scowl as he swung out at the creature, hitting it hard in the stomach. It doubled over, flesh boiling, as Dean swung again, hitting it between the shoulder blades. The cult members watched, horrified, itching to help, as their leader was beaten within an inch of its pathetic life.

Finally, the demon rolled onto its back, body mangled and burnt, boiling and steaming, and held up Holly's hands in a sign of submission. "All right," it nodded weakly, "you got me. Do your worst."

Face set and determined, Dean stood over the demon and reared back, holding the post over his head as if he intended to impale the creature that had almost stolen his entire family from him. He stood that way, waiting, for ten long seconds before his intended victim spoke again.

"Well," the demon hissed, eyes gleaming weakly as its host's body slowly gave out, "you sanctified the stick, what're you gonna do now?"

"Get rid of you once and for all," Dean replied, glancing back at his brother, who was still pinned to the wall.

"You do that, and all of the people in this room, yourself and your brother excluded, of course, are gonna die. They're connected to me, Dean, and killing me will end them all. Can you really live with that?"

Dean stared at it, at the people surrounding them, at Claire, then back at Sam. How many people in the world had been touched by this thing? How much blood would be on his hands if he ended it?

The hunter didn't get a chance to find out, as his indecision gave the demon the window of opportunity it needed. The light returned to its sickly yellow eyes as it lashed out at the angel, throwing him across the room and into the wall, where both wings broke upon contact. The railing post was sent after him, slamming through his midsection and embedding itself in the wall, impaling him.

Dean screamed as the pain in his wings gave way to searing pain in his stomach as the pole was rammed through him. His head drooped and he saw blood trickling from the hole in his stomach onto the floor. Finally, everything went black.


	15. Chapter 15

All right. Another update. Hope you like it!

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Sam's eyes grew wide as the demon stood up and brushed itself off, picking at some of the scars that the blessed rod had left. It looked at Dean, slumped over, obviously dead, and smiled before turning back to Sam.

"Well," it muttered, walking up to him, "that was certainly unexpected, wasn't it?"

"Go to Hell."

The creature just grinned. "Been there, done that." It raised its hand to Sam's forehead again, opening its mouth and uttering something unintelligible. It smiled wickedly, drawing its hand away and caressing Sam's cheek. "Welcome to the family, _son._"

The smile faded, though, as Sam's eyes lit up.

Shallow gasping echoed through the room as Dean lifted his head. "Dammit," he muttered, glancing down at his stomach and the pole that held him to the wall.

"Look at that," the demon mused, walking from Sam and approaching Dean, "you really are an angel. Last person I'd expect. I mean, you're such a naughty boy. Lying, cheating, _killing_. What would daddy think of this if he were alive?"

Dean didn't reply, just grabbed the pole sticking out of his stomach and pulled, trying to dislodge it.

The demon smiled. "So desperate. So broken. So _immortal_." It leaned close. "I can free you," it whispered, "you don't have to hurt anymore."

Still smiling, the creature stepped back and held out a hand, chuckling as Dean struggled to free himself. The demon didn't give him a chance, and began to mutter in some forgotten language. The hunter began to glow with a soft blue light that slowly dispersed, heading toward the centuries-old evil.

As the light faded, Dean began to scream, writhing back against the wall and clutching at his stomach. From his vantage point, Sam could see the broken wings retracting into his brother's back.

The light finally faded completely, leaving Dean pinned to the wall, like some bug in a geek's collection, grasping weakly at the rod in his stomach. The demon watched, amused. "Can't come back if you're not immortal," it muttered, leaning in towards the dying hunter, "can't save your brother. You failed him, Dean, and now he's mine."

Sam watched as a look of pure terror and desperation flashed over his brother's face, and the older man's head lolled down onto his chest as life finally, permanently, left him.

Sammy shook his head, knowing there was no turning back, that his brother was really dead, and nothing he could do would fix that. "No," he moaned, repeating the single syllable over and over again as he felt his body being released from whatever hold the demon had had on it. He slid to the floor, burying his head in his hands, trying to hold back tears, to keep himself as composed as possible in front of the thing that had taken his entire family.

"Look at the bright side, Sammy," the creature cooed, kneeling beside him, "he's in a better place now. Beside, we're all the family you need."

Sam didn't hear. He was too busy thinking. Too busy _regretting_. He'd never told his brother that the situation was OK, that he wasn't a freak. He'd never made things right. He'd never apologized for half the things he'd done to the older man. He'd started getting used to the fact that Dean couldn't die, had actually believed that nothing could take that away. And now, his brother was dead, and his murderer had just welcomed Sam to the family.

Dean had wanted a family. Dean was the only one who could get away with calling him Sammy. Dean was going to get vengeance.

The young psychic's head snapped up, and before he even knew what he was doing, Sam had lashed out at the demon. Holly's body went flying across the room and skidded to a stop on the floor twenty feet away.

Sam turned to the rest of the cult, which had immediately run to help their fallen leader. They flew in every direction, slamming into walls, sliding across the floor, getting thrown through doors, and even hitting the ceiling. He heard heads cracking and necks snapping and he didn't care. They'd killed his brother. They'd killed all he had left.

He slid slowly up the wall and into a standing position as the walls around him began to crumble, falling to the ground. The few cult members that were still conscious ran, but Sam knocked them down without even moving. Hell, he didn't even have to _look_ at them.

He crossed the room slowly, moving to his brother's pale, lifeless body. The pole slid out of him, and Dean crumpled to the ground. Sam knelt beside the older man, staring at his clear, unmarked shoulders. There was no sign Dean had ever had wings. There was, however, a large hole through the hunter's stomach that gave away the severity of his injuries.

Sammy felt tears burning behind his eyes as he laid his brother down on the cold tiled floor, closing the unfocused hazel eyes. Dean's pants, the wall, the floor, and the post that had been used to kill the older hunter were all covered in blood, and Sam could feel it seeping into his jeans as he knelt beside the man.

"That's good," a cold voice said from behind him, "let it out, Sammy. Feel that power. It's been unlocked now, and all you have to do is want it."

Sam spun around, an action made much easier by the thick coat of slick blood that surrounded him. "Monster," he hissed as the blessed railing post beside him lifted into the air and sailed straight toward the demon.

Holly's mouth opened wide as the demon made its escape. The pole pierced the already-dead girl's body bare seconds after the creature that had been inhabiting it left.

Sammy turned back to Dean as the muffled thud of Holly's body hitting the ground reached his ears. He was at a loss. He had nothing. There was nowhere he could go, nobody to turn to.

The hole in his brother's stomach gaped at him, reminding him of everything he'd lost. Finally, the young psychic let go of everything he'd been holding back and let his tears flow freely as he laid down beside his brother, laying his head on Dean's cold shoulder and placing a hand over the single hole that marred the older man's memory.

He cried, head on his brother's shoulder, wishing that they could slow dance just as Dean had offered in the first week after their father's passing. He sobbed heavily, remembering those days, how broken his brother had been, how much he'd needed a family. Now Sam was the one who needed a family, but there was none left. That damned demon had taken them all.

That demon, the same one that had just initiated Sammy into its cult of followers, the one that had helped him unlock all of that hidden potential. The one that had killed his brother as Sam had watched, helpless.

He needed Dean. Needed him more than ever before, but he was gone and he wasn't coming back.

Sam continued to sob for what seemed like hours, but couldn't have been more than a minute, mercilessly aware of how cold his brother was, how his heart didn't beat and his chest didn't rise or fall.

Wait…

Sam stopped sobbing and held his breath. He could have sworn he'd heard….

Yes. There it was again. It had sounded like a heartbeat. Faint, but growing stronger. Sammy sat up and stared at his brother, who was cold and still, but not as pale. Was that even possible?

Suddenly, Dean shot up into a sitting position, coughing and gasping as color returned to his face. His eyes scanned the room, looking for trouble, assessing the danger. Finally, he relaxed. "Man, Sammy," he muttered, "I know they were evil, but did you really have to nuke 'em?"

Sam gaped, unsure of what to say, or if he was even awake.

"Um, Sam," Dean grinned, "I realize we had this talk yesterday, but I think it's high time for a refresher." He glanced down at his stomach, where his brother's hand still sat. "Incest is outlawed."

Laughing harder than he had in the previous three months, Sam pulled his hand away, grinning widely at the absence of any kind of hole in his older brother's stomach. "You're alive," he gasped.

Dean nodded. "Guess the guy upstairs came through after all, huh?" He stood up and brushed himself off, gazing at the floor around him. "Now, let's get to a hospital. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need a transfusion or something."

Sam hopped up beside him, still grinning, still terribly aware of how close he'd come to losing the only thing he had left.

Together, the brothers walked out of the partially-destroyed mansion and into the night, shivering as the cool air hit the tacky blood that coated their clothing. "So," Dean began as they headed back to the motel, "whatever happened to our yellow-eyed friend?"

Sammy gulped. Now that his brother was back, he wasn't about to scare him off with tales of initiations and suped-up psychic abilities. He shrugged. "Just left."

Dean nodded, noticing the way his little brother avoided his stare. "You all right?"

"Fine. Why?"

"Dunno. Way you're acting, either that thing got you into the cult, or it went all Michael Jackson on your ass and left for Neverland without you."

Sam grinned. "I'm fine. Guess it thought it could come get me later or something."

"You know I'm not gonna let that happen, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I know." That was just what he was afraid of.

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One chapter left!!!!! 


	16. Chapter 16

Oh, saying good-bye. Why is it sad? That's right, folks. The last chapter. The end of the line. Thanks so much for reading and posting such nice reviews. I'm happy to know that I'm not the only one who despises Wincest!

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It had been two days since the demon's near-demise at the hands of one of its own 'children,' and Sam and Dean were finally packed and ready to get the hell outta dodge. Even though every member of the cult had been killed that night, they weren't going to be taking any chances.

There was just one thing that Sam had to do before they left, and Dean was more than happy to wait in the car while he did it. A church was the last place he wanted to be at the moment. Sure, God had, apparently, come through for him in the end (because it _had_ to be God. The alternative was Sam, and that would mean…), but he'd been stripped of his wings and they freedom they'd brought. Dean figured it was understandable if he wasn't exactly in a worshipping mood.

Sam was more than happy to let his brother stay in the car. Hell, he probably would have let Dean yodel to the oldies if the spirit had moved him. The younger Winchester had recently gained a greater appreciation of his older sibling, and was currently feeling a little more generous when it came to what the elder wanted. No more talk of school, no more 'I wanna be normal.' It was going to be all about the family, come hell or high water.

_Or demons trying to get their children back,_ his mind hissed coldly. He hadn't told Dean he'd been initiated into the cult, and was kind of hoping that his brother would never have to find out. Besides, as long as Dean never asked, it wasn't like Sam was lying, right? Right.

Sammy walked through the doors and back into the church, looking for Father Emerson. He wanted to, at least, thank the man that had helped teach him the value of family. Instead of the kindly old priest, though, Sam found a young black man kneeling in the front pew.

"Excuse me," Sam said quietly, walking up to the stranger, "but where's the priest? I need to talk to him about something."

"That would be me," the young man said, turning to face the hunter, "what can I do for you?"

"Um, actually, I was looking for Father Emerson."

"Emerson?"

"Yeah," Sammy nodded, "he helped me out a while back, and-"

"Son, there's never been a Father Emerson here, at least not to my knowledge. Are you sure you got the name right?"

"Positive."

The priest shook his head. "Well, I don't know him. Don't even have any parishioners by that name."

"Oh," Sam muttered, turning slowly back toward the doors, "well, thanks anyway."

"You're welcome," the priest called back, "hope you find who you're looking for."

Sam, nodded and left the church. Was it possible that he'd imagined the kind old man, or was there some supernatural force at work? Maybe he'd been an angel. Weirder things had happened that week.

Sighing, Sam pulled open the Impala's door and slid in. He glanced over at his brother, who started the car. "Ready to go, Psychic Boy?"

Sammy nodded. "Yeah. Let's get out of here. Before something _else_ goes wrong."

Dean grinned and pulled out of the church parking lot and onto the main road in the small town, heading toward the city where he'd first met Holly Monroe.

* * *

Charles Emerson, 70 years old and still dowsing like a pro, walked into the street as the '67 Chevy drove toward the city. He grinned. "Yes," he said clearly into the cell phone, "yes, they just left. Heading east." He nodded as he received his instructions. "Yes, I'll be there. I understand. Don't worry, father, we'll get him, and his guardian angel, too."

End

* * *

Ok, Ok. You got me. There's a sequel currently in the works, but don't expect it for a good, looooong while, cuz I have a ton of homework to do and very little time to do it!


End file.
